


The Proof of Sentiment

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom!Lock, Case Fic, Complications, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Military Kink, Original Characters - Freeform, Past Sexual Assault, Praise Kink, Romance, Secrets, Self-Hatred, Sex, Sex Dreams, Slow Burn, Smut, Tension, Top!lock, demisexual!Sherlock, domestic!lock, mystrade, nsfw johnlock, switch!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:01:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 77,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1929378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking place a year after their first anniversary, John and Sherlock play the complicated 'game' of attraction, which explores their unnamed relationship and Sherlock's fluid sexuality (or lack thereof).<br/>Will they ever cut the veil and become the couple everyone assumes they are?<br/>...Yes, the answer is yes. They will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many months ago, this fic was an unreachable idea of mine. I wanted to commit myself to a lengthy fic that did not stem from a previous request or prompt. Over a series of weeks, laden with ridiculously late nights, I actualized my idea. 
> 
> It has not been beta'd by anyone but has been meticulously combed and edited just the same.
> 
> Lots of love to all those dinguses that heard endless excitement about this and had to hold out until it was finished! XoXo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a game to him.

 

The sleek maroon silk of John Watson's robe warmed in the morning sun as he stood placidly at the window, observing the hustling people of London hum and thrive on the grey cement streets below. A woman laughed after locking her bike away, her orange hair licking at her pale shoulders like flames as it tumbled out of her helmet. 

A man walking a small terrier passed her, and John's dark eyes caught him turn around and watch her lean form secure the helmet to the metal basket. 

The doctor smiled to himself, the cup of tea slowly cooling in his worn hands. He bathed in the peace of moments such as this; his life constantly moving, the ringing crack of gunshots and the crimson color of bloody scenes heavily weighing on his tense shoulders. 

His prominent, unique nose nearly touched the glass as his gaze followed the fit woman into the bakery, her yellow shirt contrasting the blue and white design of the shop.

John Watson breathed deeply as he admired the city's awakening. He was tired, and he moved away from the window slowly, as if he had no certain place to be. He made his way across the living room and sought the comfort of his chair, his flatmate's empty adjacent his.

He plopped his bum down lightly and sipped his cold tea. He made a face at its chill and set it on the table beside him. He stretched.

John Watson was a fit man, strong and solid, as if he wouldn't tumble backwards if he were to be rammed into. His shoulders were broad, although on his left, the tender, puckered, shiny skin where he'd been shot was just so. He was short and heavy, his muscles toned strenuously from military training. His eyes were filled with natural curiosity, and they switched from a deep navy color to a stormy grey for no particular reason at all. His stern gaze lay underneath light, sandy hair that he meticulously combed with occasional product, though nothing seemed to make a difference. His face was round and worn, his eyes sunken deep into it after experiencing the horrors of war firsthand. His brows were quizzical and his chin less than sharp. His smile was brilliant, gorgeous when he meant it and terrifying if he was livid. He had rough, soldier's hands, but they patted his knees gently as he relaxed in his favorite chair, the overly long robe fitting snug on his torso.

He kicked at the newspaper on the ground with his toes, curling them in an attempt to pick it up. After a few tries, he succeeded, and he brought yesterday's headline up to his face. He read through he obituaries, the articles, even the comics, anything to pass the time calmly.

Sherlock Holmes, his flatmate and complete prick, seldom slept, but when he did, it was out of cycle and hard to awaken him from. John bathed in the glory of the silence, no tapping of laptop keys or mutterings or mind palaces being searched. Although the quiet was lovely, John missed Sherlock's low, grumbling voice, and he waited patiently for him to wake so he could hear it once more. Only then did his day officially begin; these hours were just fillers.

John sat calmly, thinking of the fit woman with the bike. She was beautiful, that was clear. It seemed that he noticed her beauty rather than being taken back and shocked by it, as if he weren't expecting someone so incredible to have added appeal. John was good natured that way. He noticed appearances and personality nearly on the same level, some cases exceptions. He would come out and say it right on if he was attracted, as well, but quickly shy away if met with rejection. 

The war doctor was unattached at the moment, having just broken it off with one of his girlfriends. Seemed he got bored easily with women, or women with him. He acknowledged them as intelligent, witty, compassionate, and radiant, but he never was completely in awe of anyone. ...Save for Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was a masterpiece. 

Said man appeared from his room, his eyes sleep ridden but his posture pure. He wandered with shuffling feet over to John and plopped down in his chair, his long legs stretching out and rolling at the joints with a satisfying pop. 

Mr. Holmes was unnatural. He was pale, chiseled, and structured. His tall form stood regal and proud while his body moved lithely, quick and agile. His face was long, topped with extremely prominent cheekbones and a strong, wispy brow. His dark, shaggy, curled hair flopped into his eyes when messy, as it was now, and his almond eyes fluttered against dark lashes with the weight of sleep still on them. His lips were plump, the lower full and large, while the upper had a prominent dip, his cupid's bow sharp and angular. His face was strange and wonderfully so, as if one couldn't get bored looking at it. His eyes opened slowly, the morning light changing them from the dark blue they must've been as he slept to a brilliant jade green. His eyes caught anyone off guard, both with their changing shades and their intensity.

Sherlock's personality was more a puzzle than an art piece. He was brash, brutally honesty, and detective. He could break a heart in two, with a sneer, as well as mend it with a chime. He was a ridiculous man, one to deal with, certainly.

His talent, beyond playing the violin, combat, and chemistry, was deducing. He could tell what a man's occupation was from the length of his fingernails and how many times a woman had fallen in love by the wrinkles in her skirt. He was mad, utterly mad, and it was that mad fascination that John was drawn to.

While most people were frightened and skeptical of Sherlock's gift, John found it incredible and brilliant, and he voiced it the first day Sherlock deduced him, getting everything right via a handed down cellphone, save for the sex of his sibling. Sherlock was unaccustomed to hearing such praise, and it pleased him immensely. His high walls were beginning to crumble around John, although he had many layers.

His older brother, Mycroft Holmes, an even more intelligent and honest man, had overshadowed him in his talents and, although Mycroft only wished the best for his brother, seemed to shape most of what Sherlock held close.

Sherlock groaned now, and he touched his head with his slender fingers carefully. "John," he croaked, his voice new from sleeping, "Aspirin."

John immediately leapt from the chair and hurried to the kitchen, careful not to trip over his robe, where he rummaged for the bottle of pills and filled a clean glass with tap water before returning to the living room and handing both to Sherlock, whose sharp eyes were closed now, his head dipped back in his chair. 

He took the pill and followed it with a gulp of water, mindlessly handing the full glass back in John's direction. John took it and set it down in the kitchen, hustling back to his position near the man.

"You've got a headache, then?" John asked, more of a statement than a question.

"Yes, my cycle is rubbish."

Sherlock stayed up most nights on cases, as was his job. He was a consulting detective, the only one in the world. He'd made the job up, even. The police sought his help in matters that far exceed their abilities, and Sherlock, as one of the workers John and Sherlock had frequently met with put it, "got off on it" - 'it' being the crimes.

Now that Sherlock slept through most of yesterday and today, the morning light that streamed onto his brows and eyelids now pained his aching head.

John nestled back in his chair and soaked in the sight of the man as he stretched his head back, his long neck exposed. "Have we got a case today?" the detective asked, his throat grumbling a sound up towards the ceiling.

"You tell me."

"My phone," Sherlock said.

"Where?" Conversation flowed easily between them, be it short quips or long deductions. 

"My coat pocket." 

John stood up once more, completely aware of his unhealthy compliance to bring Sherlock what he needed. Sherlock had so much taking up his mind and his energy that John had now gotten used to doing the odd chores like bringing him tea and biscuits and such. He found Sherlock's trademark charcoal, sweeping coat hanging on the rack and he slipped his hand into its warm pocket, feeling for the smooth surface of the phone hidden between satin folds.

"You're wearing my robe," Sherlock said from his slumped position in his chair. John couldn't see him as he made his way back, but he was sure that his eyes were still closed and the deduction had been made in the few seconds that they'd been open and briefly floating around John's form.

"Yes…" John was either a sassy prick with a heated argument in mind, or a fumbling, nervous teenage girl when he spoke to Sherlock. There was nearly no in between. He struggled to get the word out as he sat back in his chair, immediately wiping his hands on the arms.

"You didn't sleep in it, did you?" The man's adam's apple bobbed as his hand extended for the phone.

"No," John snorted, laughing off his embarrassment at the thought, "It was too cold for a shirt but too warm for a coat. It was on the bathroom door when I woke up and I wore it after my shower. You don't mind?" John was nervous about his decision to wear Sherlock's maroon robe, even though the blue one was more commonly worn by the tall man. 

John Watson usually hid his wonder and fascination for Sherlock, save for his breathy compliments while on the job. This morning, his breaking of new ground was timid and curious, although John was sure Sherlock would berate him for it. John's invasion of personal space with Sherlock was rare, but it did happen, mostly when they were alone without a client or an interrupting Mrs. Hudson. He'd usually keep his hands off of Sherlock's belongings, but John felt needy and lonely after breaking up with Candice - or was it Claudia? - and John wanted to see how far he could go with Sherlock before being called out. Wearing his clothes was nearly far enough, it seemed. It was a game to him. He slipped word of their fragile friendship into daily conversation, he talked about how handsome he felt, and he most definitely joked about Sherlock being jealous of his dates. He liked the power play as well as the slightly less impassive look on Sherlock's face when he broke the barrier. Now he watched as Sherlock lifted his head up and sat up straight, his eyes locking directly onto John's. John stared back for a few seconds, lost in the rings of color, before he darted his gaze away and awaited a reply.

* * *

Sherlock recounted his deductions of John in order to calm himself and keep his running mind sharp.

_Nervous, worried that I'll be upset that he wore my robe. He was leaning at the window a few moments ago, the dust on the front of my robe is obviously from the windowsill. Mrs. Hudson should tend to that. He made himself some tea but let it go cold as he watched the city. He did, in fact, put the robe on after his shower, the collar's damp. He regrets breaking up with Cheryl, or was it Charlotte? She was horrid. They're all horrid. He shaved this morning and slowly, he didn't nick himself this time. He doesn't have anything planned tonight, he's eaten quite a lot of toast, and if he had a date, he would have kept his diet smaller._

Sherlock watched John with fascination, because as much as he knew about him, as much as he could deduce about him, he couldn't understand John Watson's heart or how John felt about _him_. Not that he'd care, mind you.

_He's going to ask if I have a case ready, even though he's already asked it. I don't feel like going out today. I want to go back to sleep._

John asked again.

Sherlock coolly looked at the phone in his hand, his thumb swiping across it smoothly, tapping on the screen. He wasn't looking at anything in particular, but John Watson didn't know that.

* * *

John kept his eyes on Sherlock. It was rather impossible not to watch Sherlock when he furrowed his brows and wet his lips. It was a curious attraction and John Watson always let himself gaze, passing it off as allowing himself to be swept up in the intensity of the case or leftover emotions from the strain of his lifestyle.

Sherlock looked up, "Nothing today."

John's stomach clenched, _I don't have anything planned either._  

"So what?" he asked. _That sounded rude. Shit._

Sherlock stood up suddenly, briskly, and he made his way to the kitchen, sniffing at the crumbs of bread left there by John. "Hungry this morning?" Sherlock teased.

_Bastard._

John picked the paper up with a nonchalant hand, attempting to seem unfazed by the comment. He ruffled it and cast his eyes on it without soaking in any of the words. He forced his cheeks not to heat. "So what'll you do, then?"

 _Don't seem eager, now._ John persuaded himself to keep his mind from the straying images of Sherlock and him having a day together. He didn't think of the smirk Sherlock would get when playing cards, his deductions and card counting always causing him to win. He didn't think of Sherlock and him doing laundry and getting distracted from the task by throwing clean clothes at each other. John Watson would never think such things.

Except that he did.

 _This prick will probably just tell me to get out while he works with his set._ John eyed the chemistry set on the kitchen table, Sherlock's tight bum flitting around it as he began to make toast and fill the kettle again.

John disregarded it as much as he could. It was harder to control his wandering eyes on lazy days like this. Maybe it was just the newness of the year that made him sickeningly sentimental. His resolutions failed him and he seemed to wonder how much easier it would've been to keep Chandra around.

"Well?" Sherlock hadn't answered.

Sherlock and John bantered back and forth with quick remarks or questions, their prolonged dialogue usually attached to a dispute.

"Have a cup, dress, do some experiments. As for you, get out of my robe." He bounced around the kitchen, his back turned. The bread took longer than expected to pop, and John found himself counting the seconds until Sherlock pulled the toast from its snug position in the toaster.

"Fine," John hid his hurt voice beneath his sass. He stood and removed the robe, flinging it down on Sherlock's chair adjacent his. He left the living room quickly, seeing as they'd run out topics to talk about, and Sherlock preferred to eat his breakfast alone. It seemed that way today, anyway. Sherlock was particularly prickly.

* * *

The lean detective set his toast and empty cup down on the clear table in the center of the living room. He took the paper from beside John's chair and lay it down, the kettle steaming. He moved towards the kitchen, taking precaution not to strain his tense muscles, which were sore due to his long sleep. He retrieved the kettle and poured the hot water into the cup carefully, the sunlight catching in the reflective stream. He returned it to the kitchen, his fingers strangely alive and shaking with excitement. He couldn't deduce what caused them to do so. He sat down gracefully.

He ate and drank peacefully as he read the paper, his eyes soaking in the words John had previously. Yesterday's paper became dull to him quickly, and he just reveled in the silence of the still room, unaware of his mind - which, for once, wasn't racing over crimes and blood. It was mildly stuck on John's abrupt disappearance from the living room.

Sherlock was impassive as he heard John huff in a near gallop down the stairs from his room, take his own coat from the rack, and leave the flat.

Alone now, Sherlock eyed his violin. He'd save the experiments for later; the thought of composing was calling him like the ocean's lapping waves.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter one, otherwise known as creating the milieu as well as the underlying tension.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John couldn't hold her gaze for very long because it made him ache for a daughter, which he'd never thought of as a problem until this moment.

John Watson had dressed quickly and disappeared out of the flat, biting back his rising snark. John decided to take a walk in a park. He remembered that he'd been limping through a similar area when he'd been reunited with Mike Stamford the first day he had to endure Sherlock. He recounted that Mike had told him that his disbelief that anyone would want him as a flatmate was shared with someone else. So began John's journey.

He found himself stepping briskly down the sidewalk of Baker Street, his jumper warming him under a coat against the January wind. He passed an old couple and a woman with a stroller, and he knew that if Sherlock were with him, he would have deduced everything about them.

John imitated him, _That old woman is an assassin. She was planning to kill her husband, who is actually her brother. How do I know that? John, it's obvious. She was wearing a fur coat. You wouldn't wear a fur coat if you were some innocent old lady. Oh, and the woman with the stroller was their neighborhood babysitter when she was younger, and the baby is her daughter from when she was a prostitute. I can assure you, it's accurate. It's all there._

 _Bastard,_ John thought again. He tried impeccably hard to serve and deal with Sherlock Holmes, but he was treated with disrespect. Not that he necessarily cared, of course. 

John spent the next twenty minutes of his walk berating himself and calling out Sherlock's arsehole nature. He crossed the street briskly, hands dug into his pockets, feet sweeping the solid road beneath him. The winter air nipped at his ears and he sniffed his nose involuntarily, thinking of the prat he'd left in the flat. He nearly got hit by a car while he was pretending he was wearing a long black coat, the collar turned up, his cheeks sucked in. The honk of the car snapped him out of his funk and he shook his head to clear the image. He forced a smile onto his face. _No, today's_ my _day._

The man who had been playfully wearing Sherlock's clothes earlier was now grumpy and entering a clearing in the city, where benches and food carts were plentiful. He plopped his bum down on a bench and attempted to deduce the people he watched. There was a mother with her daughter, whose raven hair was tied in a pink band. There was a teenage boy and a guitar on the grass, his dark clothes adding to his forced persona. There was a white dog with a blue collar, his owner trailing behind him proudly. It was nearly noon on a Sunday, and the park wasn't the extremely lively it would have been on a Saturday evening, but it was wonderful just the same. The dipping trees bowed their branches to playful children, the surrounding cement receiving good use as they skipped across it. The little girl with the pink tie had now been joined by a blonde boy in blue pants. They both seemed to be around the age of seven. John found himself watching more curiously as the interaction between the two children continued, their mothers chatting pleasantly, another babe cradling in the mother's chest as she spoke of operas and ferns.

"Frankie!" The girl said, her cheery voice tumbling from her small body. She was chasing the boy around, her chubby hands reaching for his shoulder. When her sausage fingers found it, she yelled "Tag!"

He turned on his heel quickly and smiled widely, two of his front teeth missing. He said something that John couldn't decipher from his seated position, but it caused the girl to flash an innocent smile. She ran in circles around him as he chased her now, but when his arm reached out to tag her, it pushed with a strange force and caused the girl to tumble to the ground on her hands and knees. 

John was surprised by the action jolted with a start, but he remained seated in case the girl wasn't hurt. Unfortunately, she raised her head and her raven hair was matted to her cheeks with tears. John Watson was at her side before he could catch himself, his father and doctor instincts leaping into action. "Are you alright?" He asked stupidly. The girl's hands and knees were scraped and covered in flecks of broken skin and blood. With a helpless cry, the girl looked at her own torn flesh as if she'd never seen something so horrible. John reached out and touched the girl's chubby forearm, helping her to lift her onto her bum. Tears streamed down her face and her voice turned shrill with sobs.

The boy was nowhere to be seen and the mothers were just now noticing. John caught their eyes and said, "I'm a doctor. She's just scraped up. If we clean the wounds and give her some bandages, she'll be okay." 

This sort of injury was nothing compared to what John had experienced in the war, but the girl was frightened and he used his most simple, father-like voice in comforting her. "You'll be okay. We're going to get you cleaned up. Is this your mother?" John directed his words from the girl to the woman who looked the most concerned. She nodded and moved to a squatting position beside John. "Do you have a flannel?" The mother nodded in answer to John's question and quickly moved to rummage through her purse. She retrieved a purple handkerchief and took it to the water fountain a few feet away, dampening it.

John was now moving the hair from the child's eyes. Her sobs softened as she looked at the man in front of her with the funny nose, and although she hurt, there was something in his eyes that made her comfortable. She sniffled her final sob away. "What's your name?" In the silence of her hesitation, John had the strange need to have Sherlock watch him care for a child, but as she raised her eyes to him, the thought vanished.

"Miranda," she said. 

"Look, Miranda, here's your mother. What's her name?" John took the wet cloth from the woman, who was being strangely silent, and asked her with wide eyes if it was okay to touch the girl's hurt knees with it. She nodded.

"Courtney," the mother finally said, returning to squat beside Miranda. She stroked her hair comfortingly. "And yours?"

"John. John Watson. I work at the clinic." He dabbed the cloth on the girl's knees, the red stain turning orange and eventually disappearing completely. Miranda was strong and said it only stung a little bit. John continued to wipe away the scratches on her other knee, which wasn't as bad, and her hands, which turned out just to be red from the contact.

When he was finished, he smiled at both the girl and the mother. "See? You're okay."

"Thank you." Courtney raised Miranda to her feet and helped brush off her grey skirt. The girl gave a meek wave and transitioned her hand into wiping her snot as she was lead away. John nodded curtly after giving the handkerchief back. He retreated to his spot on the bench. The whole ordeal was pointless and short, not the thrilling adventures that he experienced when mucking around with Sherlock.

 _Damn it all, I'm back on Sherlock._ John hated himself for constantly worrying about the man, but he tossed it off as his duty, being his… _Assistant? Flatmate? Friend? I don't know what I am to him._

John Watson contemplated his existence and his part in the universe, relating to Sherlock's fantastically unrealistic life, for the better part of ten minutes. He watched the little girl find the boy once more, and she continued to play with him, even though he pushed her. The mothers resumed talking, although Courtney kept a closer eye on Miranda. Her dyed blonde hair was pulled into a topknot and her dark roots showed, and John found himself wondering why she'd want to lighten up such pretty follicles. However, thinking of dark hair brought him back to Sherlock, so he darted his eyes away and directed his attention at the other people in the park. It was a lost cause when he felt a poke at his right knee. He turned his scowling face in the direction of the contact, where Miranda was looking at him, her eyes now dry and cheeks flushed with energy.

"Hi, mister."

John found Courtney smiling at him, a sign of trust. "Hello."

"Can I sit with you?" She clambered up and onto the bench before he could say yes. "I didn't get to talk before, when I fell."

"Oh?" _She's chatty. Reminds me of someone._ He caught himself. _Shut up._

"I don't like not saying thank you. So thank you. It wasn't so bad. It hurt a little."

"That's how things usually are. You make them out worse than they are."

She shifted and smoothed out her skirt. "That's smart."

"Do you think its true?"

"Yeah. Like, he didn't mean to push me. At least that's what his mommy said, and him, too. What do you think?"

John couldn't hold her gaze for very long because it made him ache for a daughter, which he'd never thought of as a problem until this moment. "He probably likes you."

"Yeah, maybe." John was expecting denial, so her answer made him laugh. Miranda twirled a stray section of hair around her thumb. Her eyes sparked and she asked the next question with strange intensity. "Do you like someone?" 

John snorted. "No." _Let's not discuss our sex life with a seven-year-old, hm?_

"Liar!" Miranda poked his knee again until he gently batted her hand away. "You do, I can tell. Your eyes got all funny when I asked."

 _Did they? Oh._ "Well, I did have a girlfriend."

"Was she pretty?"

"Yes, I suppose so." A pair of cold, brown eyes sharply jutted into John's thoughts and he felt himself furrow his brows.

"What does that mean?" Miranda was curious and lively and John was very fond of her, even if her questions were rather personal.

"What does what mean?"

"Suppose."

"Oh. It's like guess. I guess she was pretty. I mean, she was pretty. Maybe just not the right kind of pretty." John realized this was as close to a therapy session outside of Ella as he'd get, so he took the chance and spoke.

"Like not skinny?" The girl seemed hurt, and when John finally allowed himself to look to his right, she was poking her round belly.

"No, that's not what I mean at all. Not skinny is beautiful." He smiled at her when she met his eyes. She seemed comforted so he continued. "I mean pretty in the way that her personality wasn't pretty. She, like most of the people I end up… knowing …wasn't very nice."

Miranda made a sound as if she understood, and John found Courtney's eyes once again. She was pleasant. "That's too bad. Frankie can be sort of mean sometimes, but I still like him."

John's mind snapped to Sherlock. "I know someone like that."

"Did they push you?" 

"Well… Sometimes they _do_ push me. They're rude and cross and grumpy. Other times," Miranda was a perfect audience. She was a paragon child, and she listened intently, her hands folded in her lap. "Other times, they're nice and… they save my life."

She clapped happily. "How romantic!"

John felt smug before he'd realized what she'd said, "Well, not really…" His words mixed with a low chuckle and the buzzing vibration from his mobile. He pulled his phone from his left pocket and tilted the screen so it didn't catch the sun. A text from Sherlock. "Ah, it's from said friend." He said this mindlessly to Miranda, but she soon had enough of waiting for John to tell her more about his knight in shining armor and she hopped from the bench and hustled her chubby legs to her mother.

_Out of milk. Buy more. - SH_

The man rolled his eyes and took a deep breath before texting back. He'd always text back, but communicating electronically with Sherlock was always a hassle. He typed, crossing his ankles. He sent it with a small amount of speculation, hoping the message was worthy and intelligent.

_Just got some. Make more of an effort to find it. - JW_

Sherlock responded quickly, and even before looking at it, John roused himself from the bench, nodded at Courtney and Miranda, and walked out of the park area and back onto the streets. He took a moment to cross the sidewalk. He read the text.

_Found it. Back of the fridge. - SH_

A second came through before John could think of a response.

_Where are you? - SH_

John could feel his stomach flutter at the last text, but he pushed it away. Sherlock only wondered where he was or what he was doing when he needed something. Sherlock was prickly and unreadable, but John couldn't help but think something else was about to happen. At least he hoped so. Little did the man know, now as he made his way back to the flat, the entire encounter in the park taking less than an hour, that Sherlock was talking to him as if he hadn't left before he realized he wasn't there. The detective had made himself more tea and a small bowl of cereal with the milk he'd been reluctant to find the first time. It seemed he wanted a reason to text his flatmate, though. John didn't know how to respond to this last message, and he was still angry about the snark he received about the robe, even if he'd been expecting it. He didn't say anything as he returned to Baker Street

* * *

Sherlock had lounged on the couch for a while before he pulled out his laptop and created a short scientific narrative about the consistency of different types of tobacco ash. He added to the spreadsheet he'd created months earlier. He typed away and spoke only to ask John what type of ash average people like him smoked. When John didn't respond, he snapped and said it wasn't a judgement call, but simply research. It took him a full two minutes to realize John was not in the flat. He furrowed his brow and shoved his laptop off him, eager to make more tea and eat something for once. 

Standing in the kitchen, fridge open, a full gallon of milk staring at him from behind the olives, he'd texted John with a quick flick of his thumb. The next texts happened as he made himself a bowl and set himself into the couch, eating it slowly as if he wanted to be kind to his digestive system in processing the wheat and corn.

The tall man was placing his bowl in the sink when John entered in a puff. He was healthy and glowing from the walk, his cheeks lightly tinted pink and his short bangs fluffed up by the forward wind. Sherlock was momentarily captivated by his angry look, but pulled his eyes away and retreated to the couch and back to his ash.

 _He never responded to my text. Just as well, I didn't need his common opinion on cheap cigarettes._ Sherlock settled into the cushion and pulled his long legs into himself, his pajama bottoms shimmying up and exposing his pale ankles. He noticed the strange scar on his left ankle from where he'd been chained and locked up in a basement. Although he didn't technically admit to it, Greg Lestrade and his brother had been the ones to eventually release him of his chains. That was a wild Halloween. Sherlock puffed his lip out, _At least I know not to question the Russian mafia next time I'm tortured for information. Mycroft should have been more careful in releasing that scandal._ Sherlock flicked the memory away; it was of a time before John.

The man now stood in the doorway, watching him calmly, hiding a cheeky rage.

* * *

Sherlock let his fingers do most of the work as he tapped away on the keyboard, a constant push and pull of pause and start. John found the help he needed in watching the man in the form of sliding his hands to his hips. He knew he looked like a mother about to scold her child, but he didn't necessarily care. _I_ am _older,_ he thought.

"Are you going to do anything today?" It was almost one in the afternoon, and Sherlock was still in his pajamas with mussed hair.

"You asked me that before you left."

"Well, I'm asking you again." John walked forward and almost met Sherlock on the couch, but he resisted and sat in his own chair.

"And I'll give you the same answer, John. Nothing. Nothing today. I don't feel well. I'm tired." Sherlock didn't look up from the screen, although he wasn't typing anything necessarily important. His legs were underneath him and he looked rather small and sheltered sitting on the couch, laptop in hand, pajamas crumpled. John liked seeing him less regal and smooth at home in their domestic environment, but he also enjoyed watching him dress up when they went out to eat. He was tempted to ask him out to lunch, but they usually did so before, after, or during a case - not smack in the middle of a Sunday.

John clenched his fists, "You slept the entirety of yesterday!"

"Yes."

It was silent for a moment, the air speckled with John's annoyance and irritation. He just wanted to move on from this part of the game and get to the place where Sherlock accidentally touches his shoulder or eyes him as he exits the kitchen, banana in hand. Sherlock resumed his dazzling gaze on the computer, and John suddenly didn't feel like eating at the moment. He felt rather sick and wanted to either sleep it off or take another walk. He was itchy and prickly but also run down and beat up. _Grumpy, the word you're looking for is grumpy._

"You live a rugged life, Sherlock Holmes." John snarked.

"When I'm not chasing after murderers and inspecting corpses of child molesters, I would say I'm rather boring, yes. But you just took a walk and came back within an hour, so I wouldn't say you're any more exciting in your leisure time, either."

 _Arsehole,_ John thought as he heard Mrs. Hudson's light voice carry up the stairs and into the flat. He was glad to see the woman as she appeared before them, flattering blouse as colorful as ever.

"Boys," she said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's father instincts asdfghjkl


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old woman appeared and disappeared quickly, coming into the flat like John had into Sherlock's life.

 

"How are you getting along this afternoon, hm?" Mrs. Hudson flitted through the flat as she spoke and set about cleaning the kitchen up (although she always insisted that she was not their housekeeper, she found some sort of calm in tidying up for them when she wasn't directed to do so). She washed and dried Sherlock's bowl and put it away, as well as the plate John had eaten his measly toast on.

"This one doesn't want to do anything today," John nodded toward Sherlock. He breached new territory with his sass all the time, but something felt off as Mrs. Hudson turned a skeptical yet sweet eye at him.

"Did you have plans to celebrate, John?" The older woman turned her head back around, hiding a smirk. Her orange hair fluffed in the breeze as she opened the window above the sink.

John's heart sank to his knees. _Celebrate? What's today?_ He cast an eye in Sherlock's direction. He hadn't looked up. He mustn't know what their friend was speaking of, either.

"Of course you wouldn't remember," She turned her frail body towards them, wiping her hands on her skirt even though there was nothing on them, "Today's you and Sherlock's anniversary."

Sherlock and John simultaneously reacted but in separate ways. John kept a puzzled eye but his heart fluttered at Mrs. Hudson's words. Sherlock rolled his eyes, although he couldn't deny that he felt nervous and curious about it.

John craned his neck around to face her, "Our what?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled slyly as if she knew something they didn't, which she did. "It's been a year since you boys chased that cabbie and moved in here. The day you met. January 29th, wasn't it? Ah, I remember how well you boys hit it off." She darted her eyes to Sherlock, who didn't look at her. 

Sherlock loved Mrs. Hudson dearly and he valued her life more than his own, but at the moment, he felt rather odd and vulnerable and didn't want to let it show in his cold expression with a look into her watery eyes. 

She pulled her haze back to John with a small, defeated sigh. "Well, I best be off. I just wanted to pop in and say congratulations on not killing each other for a whole year. Let's hope the next will be just as successful, yes?" And with that, she was gone. 

The old woman appeared and disappeared quickly, coming into the flat like John had into Sherlock's life. He looked at the detective with a skeptical eye. He remembered. He'd written a blog entry the day they met, and every time he'd watch the counter, he'd see the date. January 29th. She wasn't wrong. _Anniversary…_ He said the word in his head a few times, liking the sound of it. 

John recounted the day, how he'd been strong and silent and powerful and heroic. How Sherlock had been smart and clever and biting and amazing. How Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft assumed what most people did about them, how Sally Donovan told him to be careful around Sherlock. He even remembered the wit Sherlock dealt Anderson and the way Sherlock's face loomed above his when Lestrade performed a drugs bust in their flat. The flat he'd moved into that night. That whole day felt like a lifetime, and now it was a year later. A year without his limp. A year knowing the twat before him. John glanced at Sherlock for consolidation.

* * *

_Of course she'd have to say it. Dear old Mrs. Hudson, always speaking for me whether its confidential or not. Does John remember? Probably not. Of course, I'd forgotten until she appeared. She made it so obvious that it was her intention of telling us. Superb, just remind my flatmate of the day he killed a man, why don't you? I mustn't go on like this, Mrs. Hudson is a fine friend and landlady._

Sherlock finally allowed himself to drop his tense shoulders and meet eyes with John. John was already looking at him, albeit, incredulously with a touch of mischievousness. "A year I've put up with you. That must be why I'm so short tempered today, it's history repeating itself."

"On the contrary, you were quite pleasant the first day we met. Well, not at first. But after, at Angelo's." _Now I've done it. I had to remind him of the day he circuitously asked me out. I said I was married to my work. I am, of course, but it's more than that._ Sherlock bit his tongue and resumed typing, although he acted as though he would listen if John chose to respond. He didn't. Sherlock felt rather small and continued reflecting his life in the annoying first-person his mind palace and ticking thoughts usually lacked.

 _He asked me if I had a girlfriend. Not my area. Boyfriend, then? Not my area either. Nothing's my area. It's all annoying and pointless: relationships, sex, caring. People in general._ Sherlock ignored his brain and how it reminded him of his strange attraction to the military. He didn't partake, understand, or think of _actual_ sex with _people_ , but somehow - a uniform or badge did something to him. When he wanked, that is. However seldom that was. It was bloody confusing, actually. To identify as aromatic and asexual or to lack a sexuality but still have something that made his machine of a brain hum lowly and his long body heat. Plus, it didn't help that John was in the army; it only complicated things. He squinted his eyes to push the thought away. He didn't dwell on it.

Sherlock continued, _I've never felt for anyone in any way, except a strong loyalty and companionship to John. Our relationship is strong. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson count, too, I suppose. But I only can return the favor with John. He saved my life, and I, his, so I must be kind and compassionate to him. We also live together, so he sees me at my worst. However, my work requires me to deal with sentimental, heartbroken families so I mustn't let it get to me when we do leave the flat on cases. Of course, Mycroft's constant reminder that caring and sentiment don't get a man anywhere in life is also "helpful." …But John never seemed to have a problem with it, that I didn't take him up on that offer. Whatever offer that was… Oh, for God's sake, I sound like a bloody schoolgirl pining and wondering how she can't figure out why Johnny Dearest from science class doesn't like her anymore._

His face was calm, but his mind raced in a string of narration as John fiddled with his hands. 

* * *

John thought again of that night.

 _When I first saw him…_ John had no problem recounting Sherlock's meeting as if it were a montage from a romantic comedy. That's how his mind worked, anyway. He went in order. _He was really breathtaking. Way out of my league. Much fitter than the men in the army, not that I had much of a choice nor a preference there. He was even more graceful than the women I'd been with. But when he spoke, I was really drawn in. It was like a drug, his voice, and my addiction only deepened with his deductions and incredible skill. Then we had dinner and I'd been so curious as to how such a man as him, by far the most cunning and handsome man I'd ever seen, acted as though he was unattached. It seemed my curiosity was a little too noticeable, and he shut me down instantly. That was that. Ever since then, it's been "Hold your tongue, Watson." and "Don't think about that dream you had last night, Watson." Don't know where "Watson" came from. Oh well. He's bloody infectious, he is. It's a wonder I ever get anything done with him around. I_ don't _really…_

John Watson knew that he had been attracted to Sherlock at the beginning of their life together and even a small bit now, but the thought that it'd been a year with him caused him to get strangely sentimental and he almost questioned Sherlock's opinion of it. He didn't dare ask. 

The army doctor shifted in his chair, his fists clenching and unclenching on the arms. He rolled his neck before he spoke. He told himself to continue the conversation, since the lull after the mention of Angelo's continued for the better part of a minute. "Well," John said. He didn't know if he should stand up, look at Sherlock, or make some sort of flirty joke.

"You don't have to say anything," Sherlock said, his cold eyes glazing over anything but John.

"I wasn't going to."

"How was your walk?" 

 _Eager to change the subject, Sherlock?_ "It was fine. A little girl scraped her knee. Her mother was nice." _And fit. What if I went back to the park and asked her out, Sherlock? Would you finally understand that I'm not like you in the sense that I can be alone forever? I need something warm beside me at night._

* * *

Sherlock finally graced John with his startling gaze, a hint of jealousy on his face in the form of a pouty lip. The detective leapt from his chair and paced around the room. When he came to a stop beside the mantelpiece, he looked at Billy, his skull. He traced a fingertip over the top of Billy's head before spinning dramatically back to John. "What do you want to do today?" With the addition of the fact that it'd been a year since they met, Sherlock was more in tune to do something with John, rather than sit around and complain.

"Can you not change the subject?" John bit at the bait Sherlock didn't know he was casting.

"Sorry?"

"You jump from one thing to the next, it's like you don't care what's said."

"John, you know that's how my mind works. Remember? Mind palace. Please keep up." Sherlock turned to the mirror, where he inspected his face. His brows were furrowed and he realized that they were sore from the constant pull. He unknit them and crinkled his nose. He'd always been more aware of his appearance around John, even if it was obvious that they were both handsome men. Sherlock knew that he was attractive, from the responses John showed that first night and now, as Sherlock ruffled his curls. John's eyes darted to Sherlock's hands and back to his own, his reflection behind Sherlock suddenly quite sad.

"Don't be a prick, not today." John said, his head lowered.

"Oh, you're not having second thoughts about our relationship are you? Is the stress of our anniversary getting to you? You know, we don't have to do anything special if you don't - " Sherlock tried hard at the type of sarcasm John often used. He strained his deep voice into a higher octave and exaggerated his words. John did this mostly when joking of the relationship that Mrs. Hudson and all of Scotland Yard assumed was more than friendship. Of course, it was always squeezed in carefully and never crossed the line. Sherlock actually smiled at John's interruption, and he caught the sight in the mirror. It was strange to see himself grin in such a way, but it wasn't unpleasant.

"Alright, alright! I get it, I'll make reservations at Angelo's." John was nervous at the start of Sherlock's remark, but as his tone got more saccharine as he went on, John caught onto the joke. He was tempted to respond with something including the word 'darling' or a pet name of that nature, but he didn't know what would be breaching the line. "You know, I can't believe I've put up with you for a year. Surely I'd have been dead by now." John indulged in the sight of Sherlock dropping his eyes and pulling his dramatic grin into a small smirk.

Sherlock crossed to his violin and picked it up gently. He stroked his middle finger down the curve of instrument, like he'd done with the skull, and John was forced to think naughty things about Sherlock's slender fingers.

"You most certainly would be dead. But you're not, and you still have to deal with me."

John rubbed his palms flat on his trousers. "Yes, but it has its perks."

"Oh?" 

"Mmm. Exciting crimes, opportunities to update my blog, free dinner… The list goes on."

Resting the violin on his shoulder and settling his chin into the holder, Sherlock raised his bow. "The rewards outweigh the consequences?"

"Of being your flatmate, certainly. I mean, who wouldn't want to watch cheesy T.V. movies and have the ending pointed out to them two minutes in?"

"John, just tell me to quit it when I do that." Sherlock was eager to play through some problems in his mind, like how it was that he was so freely joking with John now, when earlier that morning he'd snarked at him. That morning, he'd also composed a rather melancholy tune, and now he was about to practice one of his lighter pieces. 

"I like it."

"Hm. Good. Get used to it." Sherlock turned away from John and towards the window, the only audience to his smile the rest of London. The smile that surely by now, after a year, was especially for John.

John grinned his Sherlock grin and stood, the high, short notes of Sherlock's music inundating the room and cutting off their flirting. John was always documenting how long he and Sherlock were able to speak like that, without saying something tense and snapping. As he made his way up the stairs and into his room, John realized that that was the longest they'd gone. 

"Happy anniversary to me," he muttered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hudders ships it harder than all of us.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man had no clue of what John Watson had just dreamt.

Sherlock was squirming, his long, pale torso glistening with droplets of sweat. His body resembled that of one of Michelangelo's masterpieces, topped dark, wild curls and shimmering with glass irises. His firm thighs squeezed at John's waist. The army doctor's needy hands slid up their expanse, his fingertips brushing at his detective's prominent hipbones. His strong, lean arms were tied above his head with a blue satin rope. Sherlock was helplessly pulling at it with his slender fingers, though his wrists were bound together. The satin ribbon disappeared into the abyss above Sherlock's head. The rest of the scene was hazy white, the lines in Sherlock's alabaster skin the only clarity John could recognize. A deep moan elicited from the man's graceful throat, his octave increasing as his gaze dropped to John's hands. Sherlock's face, which was elongated into an expression of pleasure, moved and changed with the gyration of the his hips. With every thrust, John was hit with a wave of pleasure, Sherlock's weight and heat enveloping him in the kind of familiarity that came from somewhere unexplained. Sherlock was riding him, though the mechanics of the act were unknown. John Watson only reveled in the sight and feel of Sherlock atop him, that angular cupid's bow lip so far from its plump counterpart with his flatmate's breathy moan. John noticed the rise and fall of the crevice in Sherlock's neck, above his collarbone, and he felt a need to kiss it. He didn't, only let his fingers wander up Sherlock's sides. The man was writhing beneath his tight skin, bones and muscle contracting and turning to accommodate his uncontrolled grind. A strange pleasure built in John's stomach and as Sherlock deepened his rotation, John came. 

He awoke with a start, his body warm, the back of his knees damp with moisture. He shifted his hips to unstick his pants from the sheets. He felt foolish once he flicked his eyes down at his crotch, but this wasn't the first time he'd had a sex dream about his flatmate, and he dealt with the mess he'd made as he usually did. He stood from the bed on tremulous legs, shed his pants, and showered. The streaming water washed the heady dream away, and he cleared his throat as a final sign of denial. Once awake and clean, he fit a towel around his waist and ran a wash cloth through his wet hair. He rinsed the proof of the dream from the front of his pants before throwing them in the hamper. He retrieved his own robe this time, threw the cloth over his left shoulder, and continued on downstairs. 

Sherlock was sitting at the table, sipping his tea placidly, his sharp eyes gracing the morning paper with a once-over. The man had no clue of what John Watson had just dreamt. 

John was sure he wouldn't give enough away in his movements or increased heartbeat for Sherlock to deduce what he'd dreamt, since he never had with John's previous fantasies, but something was looser about them now. They were lighter. They'd survived a whole year, and it seemed that now they had less to prove.

"Morning," Sherlock said as John settled into his morning routine of making coffee, toast, and jam. He preoccupied himself with his breakfast before he responded, in case his voice was eager to betray him with the husk of arousal.

"Morning. Any news?" John quickly directed the subject to work, that which Sherlock had assured him he was married to. He hoped Sherlock would call him out and say that now was not a time for business talk, but the man in the blue robe did nothing of the sort. 

"No. I'm going to the public library today."

John gave Sherlock a puzzled look, but said nothing for a moment. Within each phrase the men spoke, there was almost half of a minute of silence. John felt awkward and insecure, but he responded once his breakfast sprung from the toaster.

"Oh, alright. Research?" John retrieved his toast and burned his fingers as he placed it on the small plate. He reached a damp hand towards the crimson jar, the other holding a knife nervously. He began spreading the jam, taking particular interest in the sound the knife made as it scraped the bread's cooked surface.

* * *

"Of sorts." Sherlock eyed John in the way that he did, his own gaze dark and nearly murderous. John must have been thinking about something that he wished he wasn't, but Sherlock could not deduce what that was. 

"Hm," John said. Sherlock sipped the remainder of his coffee and ruffled the newspaper before him mindlessly. He chose not to respond. What he was really planning on doing that day at the library was exploring his own curiosities with the military. He'd planned that he'd check out a few books with photographs, just to calculate his reactions. It'd been weeks since he conducted an experiment on himself, so he decided to take the first day of the week to hit the stacks, as it were. Sherlock dropped his gaze to the obituaries once more, nearly ashamed. In the few minutes that he spent to deduce the black and white faces in the section, John had moved into his chair and not the empty seat beside Sherlock. The detective hadn't heard him cross the room, but when he searched for John once more, he was met with a stern expression, directly focused on nothing in particular.

_Something he doesn't approve of just recently happened. He had to wash the thought away. A nightmare, perhaps._

The men sat in silence for the remainder of the hour. John ate tensely, Sherlock too cold to give it a second thought. Once he'd bored himself with the paper, Sherlock stood and moved to the kitchen, where he put his mug in the sink and took a moment to let his eyes wander out the window above it. He turned away and spontaneously darted into his room, where he took a painfully long amount of time to dress.

* * *

With the absence of the man whom John had dreamt of, he let his thoughts wander. _Again? Bloody again!? This by far wasn't the most graphic scene I've had, but… Sodding sex dream about Sherlock. He doesn't even have sex! I don't know. Maybe I should've kept that last girlfriend around for longer, seems I need more attention in that area than I thought. And the satin rope, for God's sakes._

He heard Sherlock say something from his room, something that sounded relatively close to "I need a case soon. I need to have my hands tied by tomorrow."

The army doctor's stomach dropped with the irony of that statement. _Trust me, Sherlock, your hands have already been tied._

John's worn eyes were shut tight as he berated himself more about the dream, but thinking of it only brought back the intense feeling of Sherlock grinding on top of him, to John's dismay. To distract himself, John stole the paper from Sherlock's empty seat and read it while not really reading it at all. 

Sherlock appeared in the kitchen after John had unsuccessfully noted London's news. Sherlock graced the kitchen and living room in a dark flash, only stopping momentarily to collect his coat. He did not wish John well, or that he was worried about him, or even note what time he'd be back. This sort of privacy crept under John's skin more than he'd ever let on, so he decided to keep himself from making eye contact with the object of his fantasy.

"I'm off, then," he said, before disappearing down the stairs.

John sat in the flat, silently recounting his dream as well as looking around the flat. He knew where everything was by heart, every artifact, every book, but it still fascinated him. The wallpaper's pattern was undeniably mysterious and the cluttered surfaces made the room seem alive, even in its silent state. It was more dead without a detective in it, though.

Thinking of the man once again, John cursed his fate.

"Library visit my arsehole," John muttered, the paper slightly crumpled beneath his antsy fingers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Smut! Don't worry, there is so much more where that came from. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He collected the data and moved onto the next image.

As he passed through the double doors of the library, Sherlock deduced the budget of the building as well as every person he saw. His regal composure made him seem as if he wouldbe more in place behind the reference desk, his dark coat giving him the usual mysterious air he always had about him. The woman at the desk on his right was flipping through a cooking book and twirling her false blonde hair in her fingers. The man ahead of him sat stiffly at a computer, searching for self-help and diet books. The small boy who hustled through the bookshelves was hushed by his mother, a Russian romance novel under her arm. Sherlock waded through the people, passing by them without noticing their raised glances. They looked at him in awe, all of them wondering how royal a man was visiting a public library. 

Sherlock asked himself the same question as he spotted a teenage couple snuggling deep into a beanbag chair which sat loosely in the children's section. He wondered why the people he saw were here, especially since it was a Monday morning. As for himself, Sherlock had every opportunity to visit a university's library, or even Mycroft's extensive collection. He needn't even visit one to obtain more knowledge, since his mind palace held everything he found useful. He was almost ashamed as he swept his dark coat over the green carpet with a stride into the section which most likely had a book brimming with images of men in the military. The things his mind did lack were as such, and he took the opportunity to go to a library that nobody he knew would be at. It'd be almost impossible to spot Mycroft browsing a picture book of various types of cake, although John would most definitely be attempting to read a novel in the back corner. Sherlock's blogger would, most likely, get distracted by the attractive librarian and promptly ask her out.

The detective shook the thought away with a ruffle of his coat as he pulled out three books which he deduced would give him the information he sought. He craned his sharp eyes around the bookshelves until he spotted an area suitable for his personal research. He walked to it and sat in the uncomfortable blue plastic chair. He unwrapped his scarf and removed his coat gently, setting them both on the empty chair beside him. He glanced around with sharp eyes once more, noted the redheaded woman looking through the rental videos, and opened the first book.

After the first few pages of introduction, Sherlock looked at the first picture. It was of a large group of military men, too large to cause him to react. The image was speckled with green bodies from a bird's eye view, and the next was a plaque of honored men. The third was a flag, and the fourth, a tank. Finally, the fifth picture was what he had hoped to find. 

A fit man in a white sleeveless shirt was half-sitting on a table. His strong arms were raised to his face, his hands cupping around the cigarette he was lighting. His shirt was crumpled at the bend of his abdomen, but it was snug and Sherlock knew that underneath was a washboard-like structure. His pants were tucked into muddy boots and sat snug on his hips. The man's face sharp and angular, with a straight jaw and dark brows. It was black and white, and Sherlock deduced that it was an image from decades previous. He allowed himself to notice how attractive the man was, but his body didn't heat in the way he expected. He collected the data and moved onto the next image.

This one was of three men in the dirt in full military uniforms, at which Sherlock felt the tight skin on his cheeks heat. He continued to flip through the book, noting and calculating his own reactions to the pictures. He maintained a calm expression and rigid formality, and nobody gave him any trouble. They assumed he was doing research. He was, but he was researching the effects of his military kink. He discovered that the images which made his heart rate increase the most were of thick bodied veterans, and after going through the other two books, he realized more specifically veterans with round faces and blond hair, however few there were. By the third round of looking at the same pictures, almost two hours since he had first sat, Sherlock's mind gracefully landed on John.

 _Hypothesis,_ Sherlock began, _if_ _I react sexually to military men who resemble John, then I must be sexually attracted to John. But previous experiments have proven different. I need to make sense of this…_

The detective looked down at the book to hide the confusion in his eyes which he knew he had more trouble hiding when it pertained to John. He stared at the word "nationality" on the page while his mind raced into a messy section of his mind palace. _The facts are these: I am asexual. I identify as such, and I have in the past… Not that I've revealed this to anyone. I usually do not feel sexual attraction to people. Not to women, and not to strangers. I like men, although I don't date them. I don't slip men my number, as Mrs. Hudson had suggested I do. I find men physically attractive, but I would not have sex with a man the same day I met him on the street. I've never had sex with a man, anyway. I have had sexual dreams about John, though. I have fantasized with the little knowledge I have on the matter. John does not know this. He must never know this. Moving on… By the evidence collected today, I react more intensely to that of men with military afflictions. John Watson is a war doctor and veteran. He is handsome. He is a man. He fits the rule for me, so the hypothesis must be true. However, if I am not sexually attracted to people, why is John Watson the exception? He seems to be an exception to quite a few rules of mine. I care for him, that much I know. He saved my life. In more ways than he knows… Mycroft would tell me that to establish such a connection to the man I'm living with and working beside is foolish, but he knows I care for him. I care for John Watson._ _I will be loyal to him._

Sherlock dove deeper. _He and I are always together, either in the flat or on the crime scene. I do enjoy spending time with him, having dinner with him, and hearing him come home. He and I are rumored to be a couple. …Are we?_

Sherlock had almost come to a logical conclusion until he saw a different couple, an elderly one, hobble towards the entrance of the library from the table they had just left. Sherlock added that bit of information. _No, we are not. To be in a relationship, or even dating, both participants have to be attracted to the other. I am attracted to John, but I have never made this clear to him. He thinks I am married to my work and believes that I do not have sex with people. Which is true. He has sex with people, women. And I do believe he was trying to have sex with me the night we met. I deduced that much. So he has sex with men and has made advances on them in the past, due to his outright nature of questioning me. I told him girlfriends weren't my area, but I didn't have a boyfriend. He made it clear that that was fine. He is not ignorant and discriminatory. Despite that, I still rejected his advances. I panicked. When we chased the cab and I began to feel differently about how I had responded, even if I so adamantly pushed the thought away for the majority of this year._

Although this was not the first time he thought or even deduced the night he and John met, Sherlock was adding his new discovery about himself to the equation, and he was fitting the pieces together. He reminded himself, _John was asking me out. It was obvious. He denied being my date, which was due to insecurity and embarrassment. He_ was _my date, technically. I had brought him to a restaurant and we had dinner, does not that make it a date? Don't question nature of it, Sherlock. Just review the facts. The facts for John are that he is interested in men, and showed signs of being attracted to me at Angelo's. Don't know why… Focus. Since then, he's only become more comfortable around me. He wears my clothes, eats the food I never finish, and even uses some of my hair product. So John is comfortable being with me. He is attracted to me. He finds me handsome, as his hints so obviously suggest. I feel the same for him. But there is a dearth on my end of knowledge of relationships and sex, and an abundance for John. He even dates. He dates women. They never last. And he hasn't dated since the last one, and seems he has no desire to try._

Sherlock closed the book and stared at the gold font on the front cover. _John Watson and I seem to be attracted to each other. Him to me, and I to him. By that deduction, we have "chemistry," as Lestrade put it. We have been on dates, and we are two people who live together. By technicality, and by technicality I mean the social structures and obligations that two people must follow in our society to be declared dating - John Watson and I are a couple._

The detective said his final conclusion in his head a few more times, just to see if it made sense. After another twenty minutes of deducing, placing facts, and skipping over the section in which he knew would cause him to panic if he attempted to open it, Sherlock collected his coat and scarf, stood, and swept himself back to the section which he'd retrieved the books. He put them away and quickly left the library on shaky limbs. His deduction, although factual and sound, lacked the obvious social cues which Sherlock had trouble picking up on. He did not realize that John must also declare them dating, for he assumed that the first night he was asked was proof enough.

Holmes walked home in order to pace his thoughts which the rhythm of each step. He passed by cars and pedestrians, all of which had a new light about them since he had come to the realization that he was now half of a couple. He did not understand the cultural concept of this, that if he and John were boyfriends, he would "be" John's to "claim," as it were, but the satisfaction that he was attracted to someone who was attracted to him back was enough to enlighten him. He did not dwell on anything outside of that. He did not think of why John was an exception to all of his rules, and he did not wonder how John felt about him. He knew, if he had decided to go down that path instead on his walk home, that he would end up hating himself more than usual.

Luckily, today he hated himself less, because he just figured out why Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Sally Donovan, Lestrade, Anderson, and even John's girlfriends had assumed they had been dating; that was, in fact, because they were. In Sherlock's mind, at least.

Sherlock bounded up the steps and into the flat, where he flew up the stairs excitedly and stopped in the doorway. He collected himself and forced his face to retreat back into its usual pale nature, before entering the flat.

John was blogging from the couch. He raised his eyes and gave a feeble smile.

"How was the research?" the man asked, his grump from earlier than morning wearing off with the addition of a new post on his blog.

"Very helpful." Sherlock said as he approached John, who now looked peculiarly different, if not wonderfully familiar. 

"What did you find out?" John was curious and tried hard to be kind to Sherlock.

The detective locked the realization away and urged himself to continue his life with John as it was before the thought came to him. John was oblivious.

Sherlock slid into his chair and pressed his fingers to his temples. They were hot from his overactive brain. "Something I had already known, it seems." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Military kink ehehe!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something happened when he came back from the library; both of them were looser.

The maroon robe was victim to John's wandering thumb, and as he stroked the smooth material somewhat sadly, Sherlock appeared in the doorway like an apparition. "Laundry day."

"I know," John shoved the clean robe back into the hamper from which he was folding his and Sherlock's clothes. So far, John had made piles of his and his flatmate's nightshirts, pants, trousers, dress shirts, t-shirts, socks, and the occasional flannel on the living room rug. He braced himself for an earful for touching Sherlock's clothes, specifically his regal business attire, but Sherlock just sat cross-legged beside the pile and began folding the remaining clothes, including his maroon robe.

The men continued onto the second basket silently. John found the act calming, and he reveled in the sight of Sherlock meticulously folding his worn shirts just a few feet away. Sherlock's blue satin pajamas were never thrown into the wash such as this, but his one pair of sweats was, and as John pulled them from the pile, he took a chance.

"Do you even wear these?" John held up the baggy black trousers, momentarily cutting off his view of Sherlock, whose smirk immediately fell once the John was visible again.

"Yes."

John dropped his grey eyes to the soft fabric, which he pinched in his thumb and forefinger. "Well, I've never seen you wear them."

Sherlock pulled a pair of John's pants from the hamper and began folding them as he spoke. "I do, when you're not here."

"Why don't I believe you?" John had yet to notice that Sherlock was spending extra time carefully creasing his underwear.

Sherlock watched John. He was looking down, his brows furrowed. His face was scowling, but it glowed golden in the yellow living room light. His rounder face was almost pouty, and Sherlock found himself wondering if he'd been like that as a child. Sherlock took a moment to turn his thought to the window, where the grey skies hazed over the horizons. The last day of January was graced by a foggy mist topped with a slight chill, and since the men had little to do on this Tuesday, they took the opportunity to finish up the chores.

"Because wearing something that's designed for exercise but worn for relaxation would make me too human." Sherlock tried to pull back on the bite, but John just took it playfully and finally met his eyes. Sherlock's breath hitched at the wide grin that was plastered across John's sunny countenance. 

"Sherlock, I've just folded your pants and socks. You're pretty human."

The detective couldn't help but smile at this, along with the memory of the revelation he had the day previous. Although he filed it and solidified its importance, he found himself thinking of the new label more than he'd expected. He and John were, and always had been, two halves of a singular unit. His cheeks folded with smile lines, the kind that would have looked out of place if John hadn't been familiar with this particular smile. "Blasted. I've been revealed!" Sherlock admitted to himself that he consciously indulged in making John laugh or smile, his own heavy heart lightening with the snide smile that shone before him.

"Hey, your humor is getting better!" John mindlessly tossed Sherlock's sweats at the man. They hit him in the face and immediately fell into his lap. John was about to apologize before Sherlock countered the attack by digging into the hamper and throwing a nightshirt at John. His laugh was caught in the green cotton which hit his mouth, and he found himself responding without questioning Sherlock's unusual reaction.

Sherlock stood and raced to duck behind John's chair as John hurled a ball of socks with his old rugby arm. "My jokes have never been subpar, John. Just out of place." He ducked, but the sock ball had innocently landed on the seat of John's chair.

He peeked from out behind the chair and, seeming to be without ammo, dove at the nearest pile of folded clothes beside him.

John's eyes widened. "Oh no, don't! I've just folded those!"

Sherlock scooped the pajamas into his arms and laughed a breathy laugh. "How do I say this? 'Deal with it!'" He immediately began throwing the clothes at John, who was still seated. The shirts unfolded mid air and landed softy around and on John, who was now scooping up folded clothes and throwing them at Sherlock.

For the next six minutes, the men completely unfolded and mixed their clothes. They were wrinkled and dusty from being scraped along the carpet with grabby hands, and John and Sherlock were worn out from ducking and chasing and throwing. John called time out and flopped back into Sherlock's chair. Sherlock, who had been hiding behind John's, joined him in sitting in the chair adjacent his usual. 

John sighed and cut it off with a chuckle, "Can't we just play Cluedo or something?"

"The butler did it, with the hose, in the living room."

The older man rubbed his face, his cheeks sore from grinning, "And how did he get the hose into the living room?"

Sherlock feigned a deep, struggling thought before speaking. "Don't question it," he finally said. 

"So, do you want to play?"

"I take it you're not in the mood for folding laundry anymore."

"Not particularly." John was caught in Sherlock's eyes for longer than he'd expected, and something felt different. It was as if Sherlock was looking at him as an equal, a partner. "So a yes on Cluedo?

"I'll get it." Sherlock leapt from the chair and hurried to his bedroom, where the board game was hiding beneath the bed. The last time they'd played, Sherlock deduced the murderer before the game was even a fourth of the way in, and it was impossible for the murderer to have been who he suggested. When he returned, John had cleared the breakfast table of its dishes and strewn clothes. He smiled simply, and the detective was lost in how serene he felt in that moment, bringing a game forth to play with his flatmate.

* * *

Sherlock was a sight. He moved his hand gracefully across the board, his thick brows furrowed in intense concentration. His bottom lip was drawn into his mouth and his cheeks were returning to their usual pale sharpness now that the men had regained their breath. His dark curls were frequently shuffled and rearranged on his brilliant head. His blue satin pajamas crinkled at the crook of his elbow but sat sharply on his shoulders, flattering his neck and tender skin. He sat across from John at the breakfast table. 

It was nearly noon. The colorful room behind the man was a visual of his mind, organized chaos and full of Victorian influences. Sherlock occasionally muttered some deduction under his breath, or spoke over John and changed the subject.

John Watson was in awe of this, and how playful and silly Sherlock had been. Something happened when he came back from the library; both of them were looser. John couldn't help but notice that Sherlock was less rude, less cold. 

A thought came to him as he reveled in the twitch of the corner of Sherlock's mouth. John still had no clue of Sherlock's life before they moved into the flat together; Sherlock never spoke of it. He wondered if he was allowed to ask now.

"Sherlock," he said.

"John."

John moved his character piece a few spaces before speaking. "What was your life like before we met?"

"The fiance couldn't have done it, even with the kitchen knife." Sherlock tensed and changed the subject as he often did when confronted with his past. He avoided John's gaze until his silence gnawed at him and he was forced to find John's eyes with his own. They were brimming with worry and trust, and Sherlock parted his lips to answer in hopes of returning them to their usual state of inquiry. John cut him off.

"You don't have to tell me, it's fine."

Sherlock truly did want to tell John about his days before they met, but he had locked his past away and up into his mind, and retrieving it would require mass amounts of effort, of which he didn't have the time or patience to exert at the moment.

He tightened his lips into a flat line and said nothing. John cast his eyes down and up once he found the strength to throw a half-hearted smile onto his face. They continued to play until the winner was actually revealed. Of course, Sherlock had been correct in his deductions from the start.

* * *

 _He must've had some traumatic experience, what with how our lives are now. Constantly on the brink of death and the like. Sherlock's life must have been difficult. As was mine, before we met._ John watched as Sherlock disappeared into his room, leaving John to pack up the game. As he rustled the board into its respective place, his mind once again questioned Sherlock. By this point, he tried not to become confused by anything Sherlock did. He was amazing, both with his genius and his work ethic, but John couldn't help but question his human side. _Did he have any relationships before? I don't think he even dates. He certainly never picked up on my hints. But something's different now. It feels strange. What could have changed? Not Mrs. Hudson's sodding anniversary reminder..._

John stood but left the board game on the dining table. He made his way to his room, up the stairs and behind a closed door. By the time he let out his tense breath, he was inspecting his worn face in the mirror. _I'm not going to pry. If he wants to tell me, he will. It's not my business. Maybe someday._

John scraped a finger over his left brow, down over the tender flesh of his eyelid, over the swollen bag under it, and to the solid bone under his cheek. He moved it into his mouth and bit down mindlessly. He counted the lines on his forehead, as he often did, and withdrew himself from the mirror.

He flit about his room for a while, before deciding how to spend the rest of the day. 

* * *

Sherlock curled himself under his covers. He didn't know what to do without a case now that he and John had hit the stop with their game. He decided to try to shut his brain off and give it a rest with a late afternoon nap. Of course, his mind immediately jumped to John. The room was still, but he took a noisy breath. _Well, that was an interesting encounter. John wouldn't want to know about my past. And why does he give me that look? Funny how I can learn a new language in a few hours, but I can't tell what John means by those eyes._

He rolled over, unable to get comfortable. _Just give me a case. I'm getting restless._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laundry fights!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's hands were in his hair when they arrived.

"A case, John! The game is on!"

Sherlock had broken the boundary of John's personal room by appearing in the doorway, his (now clean) maroon robe collecting the water droplets that slid down the ridiculous curve of his hair. His eyes were wild and he was grinning like a madman, his cheeks contorted in a nearly frightening manner. He waved his phone in the direction of John, who was a covered lump in his bed. Without responding, John awoke with the realization that Sherlock was in his room.

John's room was less personalized than Sherlock's. The detective's bedroom had various knick-knacks from previous cases accumulating dust on his dressers, while the soldier's room was plain. His closet was closed, but Sherlock was sure that if he were to open it, John's uniform would've been hanging on the sliding door. Besides the bed, there was only one chair, which had John's winter coat strewn onto it. The window was closed, the fresh February chill only seeping through the glass. The bathroom had a used towel hanging on the back of the door; a razor, some shaving cream, hair product, flannel and toothbrush cluttering the white tile. John's form, beneath green comforters, rustled as he spoke, his voice low with sleep.

The soldier was wrapped in serenity, but he sensed the tension that had entered his bedroom with Sherlock. The waking man grumbled out a good morning in the form of, "Too excited, not like you."

Sherlock was surprised at that. He thought John would have liked this silly version of him. Sherlock couldn't understand why he felt more loose around John in their flat, but he hypothesized that once they arrived at Scotland Yard, he'd sharpen up. "Get up," Sherlock pursed his lips. "There's been a kidnapping."

"How original," John groaned sarcastically. He felt rather lousy for snarking at Sherlock for something he sounded excited about, but it was too early to play Sherlock's twisted game of switching from giddy teenage girl to impassive cyborg. There was a tense moment before the soldier understood the silence as a cue to get up. John rolled his shoulders and craned his neck to peer over his blanket, but Sherlock had gone.

John shifted his weight to the floor as he trudged to the bathroom to shower. After the smell of the lazy day was replaced it with the strange mix of Middle Eastern dust and crisp laundry detergent that his usual jumper and jeans contained, he set about brushing his teeth. As he dully stared into his own reflection, he refused to dwell on why the smell of Afghanistan still lingered in the folds of his coat. The thought that he may be hallucinating the smell had occurred to him, considering it'd been more than a year since he was in the country. He spat the white foam into the sink, forcing the thought away. The mint paste woke him more than the lucid shower had, and he crinkled his nose at its intense flavor. He took time to wash and shave, as well as style his hair. He even added a touch of cologne, completing the John Watson persona. 

He took one last moment to check his thin blond hair, then proceeded to check the gun which he kept in the bedside night stand. As he pulled it from its cove, he reveled in the heavy feeling of it in his hand, the black surface solid against his eager fingers. Stuffing the gun into his waistband, he continued on downstairs. John contemplated the case and how long it'd been since they'd had one. They'd most likely be chasing after some porn-addict kidnapper, one of them probably getting hurt. The gun was a must, if this were to be like so many cases they'd been on in the past year. They wouldn't be staying in and eating take-out tonight. The thrill of the chase, although infectious, was what attracted John to joining Sherlock on cases. _Well, that and Sherlock himself, the bastard,_ John thought.

Sherlock was exiting his own bedroom as John's foot met the last step. He pulled his suit jacket tight, the sight of Sherlock'sbusiness attire as stunning as it usually was. John let his eyes wander for a moment, down the detective's body and over his long legs, before he pulled his eyes to the tea and bread he'd lain out for him. This was a new act, as well. _Probably just wants to get a move on and leave already,_ he thought. It was only nine in the morning, but John knew Sherlock wanted an early start. 

"Kidnapping, then? Fill me in." John took his seat and lifted the bread to his mouth, ready to nibble on something to keep himself from saying something stupid.

Sherlock smoothed his suit down once again as he spoke, his regal composure coming forward to lean closer to John than the doctor had anticipated. "A teenage boy was kidnapped by his uncle after school yesterday and and was brought somewhere, a warehouse, if I were to guess. The kidnapper sent the police a tip on where to find them, as if he wants to get caught. He threatened to continue to cut the boy until we arrive. Lestrade texted me early this morning asking if I could help him, since the uncle's note came from an untraceable source."

John locked his eyes on the crook of Sherlock's elbow as he leaned over him, typing away on the laptop, updating his deduction website. "Untraceable source, what does that mean?"

"That's all Lestrade told me, but I know that it's a written note. If it were a phone, even Scotland Yard would have thought to track the number. A video message, and the surroundings would be recognized in seconds."

Sherlock straightened himself out and eyed John, his lids slid down halfway in a rather seductive look. _Cases always did bring out a sense of sensuality with Sherlock,_ John refrained from asking any more questions by berating Sherlock's handsome features in his mind. He cursed his curious brow, sharp nose, raised cheekbones, and plump lips. He reached forward and took the newspaper, which was behind Sherlock's laptop, and idly began looking it over.

"John, we don't have time for that. Lestrade is counting on me to find the boy."

John felt rather touchy at this, at the way Sherlock said 'me' and not 'us,' but he had basically told him to bugger off earlier that morning, so his anger was mostly directed at himself. "Scotland Yard can handle it until I've finished my tea. Have you thought of all the places they could be?"

* * *

"Of course."

"And you already know where they are, don't you?" John spoke with his mouth full, but Sherlock didn't berate him on it.

"Correct." _A supported idea, actually,_ Sherlock thought.

"And you're eager to show up at Scotland Yard, tell them all how you know, and then reap the benefits and point out Greg's expression when he captures the criminal?"

Sherlock puffed a lip out. _The new and improved John Watson, now with extra sass!_ Sherlock had been forcing himself to use an internal narration whenever he dealt with people outside of cases, since it seemed to keep him from saying something offensive. "As per usual."

 _John, this is the first time we'll be going out as a couple. A couple. Couple. That sounds so common, so trashy. It means two people, and yet it has connotations of something equal to "boyfriends." That being noted, Lestrade and Donovan will probably comment on how right they were about us._ With the final biscuit crumb licked from his finger, John stood and moved close to Sherlock to exit the table.

"And so the game is on," John said as he brushed past Sherlock's chest.

"It is indeed," Sherlock rushed to get his coat and trusted navy scarf. _But the game rules have changed._

* * *

The cab ride to Scotland Yard was calming and comfortable. John found himself intoxicated by the proximity of Sherlock in the backseat. Although this form of transport was anything but new, John found that Sherlock had now let his leg fall gently touching John's. If this were any other couple of adults, the touch would be innocent and unnoticed. Sherlock and John were not ordinary, especially Sherlock about being touched, and this small act warmed John's cheeks and he caught himself smiling at Sherlock, his entire head turned to face the man. Sherlock, who would have usually rolled his eyes and turned away, smiled warmly back and knocked his knee against John's playfully. This continued for the time it took to roll up to Scotland Yard, the stone building looming with poise. John clambered out of the cab first, Sherlock's eyes flicking to his rear as they often did. They straightened themselves out, waved to the cabbie, and began walking. Sherlock, once again, had subconsciously placed himself closer to John. The doctor noticed and played the game, pushing himself closer in as they walked. 

Lestrade's hands were in his hair when they arrived. Sally Donovan had her head on the table, hands folded beneath her forehead. The men entered the usual room with official business on their anxious tongues. "Gavin, Samantha," Sherlock said, coming to a stop a few feet away from the two. John stood beside him, pulling himself farther now that Lestrade had cast an eye at his smirking face.

"Surely you're as pleased as we are to be here. Albeit, you did show up sooner than I expected."

Sherlock slipped his hands into his pockets cooly. "I'd be a fool to miss a case, Greg." Sherlock's playful personality from the day previous had dropped, a cold formality replacing it like he promised it would. John bristled unconsciously, straightening his back to look more official.

"Here, more details on the uncle." Lestrade pulled an envelope from his desk drawer and slid it across the grey table. Sherlock took his left hand from his pocket and stopped it mid-slide, his slender fingers almost twitching. He picked the envelope up and continued to read it as John spoke.

"So a teenage boy was taken hostage by his uncle after school. Do we have any motives?"

Sally lifted her head, relieved that the detective was preoccupied. "It says in that file that the uncle and the father had a falling out a few months ago. We know who he is because he has a record of domestic violence from when the brother let him sleep on his couch. It'd be easy if we could talk to the brother or his wife, but they're in shock and refusing to answer. We do have someone we can interview, fortunately - "

Sherlock had soaked in the information quickly and handed the envelope to John as he cut Sally off. "The girlfriend." _She's waiting outside. Try harder to stun me next time._

Lestrade's mouth tugged into a smile, pleased that Sherlock had an idea already. Not that he was surprised.

John took the envelope and let his fingers brush Sherlock's. The motion must have gone unseen by Sherlock, but Lestrade and Sally exchanged a curious look. The detective began his spiel, "She was contacted by the mother once the authorities were noted of the boy's kidnapping, and she seems to be more likely to be interviewed based on the mother's trust in her. Of course there's a girlfriend involved. There are no siblings and no cousins, and the boy is 17 and leaving school to drive himself. By this missing person's photo, it'd be unlikely that a boy from a broken home and a bone structure such as this wouldn't have a girlfriend."

The envelope was passed back to Lestrade, John in awe of Sherlock's accuracy of the situation. The envelope had only revealed the incident of violence from a few month's previous. "Lestrade," Sherlock said, "What do the parents look like?"

Lestrade's silver hair shone in the blue light of the office, but his eyes flashed with excitement at his ability to provide Sherlock the necessary information. "They came in late last night, but the mother was too hysterical to be questioned. She's tall and slim with dark hair and strangely thin wrists. The father looks like the boy."

"And why did the uncle fight with the brother when he was sleeping on his couch?"

"I don't - "

"Most cases of kidnappings are related in some way to sentiment and jealousy. Bring the girl in, and you'll see why this has taken me less than four minutes to solve."

Sally stood, her grey suit sharp and fitted. She and Greg had called the girl in from school. She seemed eager to leave the atmosphere of questions and rumors about her boyfriend, but her worried expression as she entered the office was due to her concerned heart. Sally ushered her into a seat closest to John, who gave her his best comforting look. Before sitting across from the girl, Sherlock removed his coat and scarf and handed them to John, who took them carefully and tucked them under his arm. John let his thumb stroke the thick tweed as he watched from his position beside the bookshelf.

The detective was bathed in luminescent light, his alice blue dress shirt pushed up to the forearms in the way that made John proud to live with him. "Hello. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm going to help you find your boyfriend. What's your name?" Sherlock smiled warmly. All three members of the investigation party seemed generally surprised at Sherlock's kind words, but his face turned sharp once the girl dropped her heavily lidded eyes. 

John met Sherlock's eyes, and for a moment he swore he saw something curious in them. "Sophia," she said.

"Sophia, do you know anything about Brandon's uncle?"

"Well… I know he and Brandon's dad had a fight a bit ago, when he was staying with them. He's odd. I only just met him when I visited for Christmas." She pulled at the pink sleeve of her sweater.

"Was he still living there when you visited?" Sherlock asked as if he already knew the answer. Lestrade's gaze darted from Sally's pout to the John's fingers, which were still rubbing the material of Sherlock's coat.

"No, by this time Brandon's father had decided him to give him another chance, a sort of 'welcome home.' As much as I hate to say it, I think Brandon gets his forgiveness from his dad."

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath as if he had added a second piece to his puzzle. "So you met the man? David, is his name?"

Her canines were crooked, and they peeked through her glossed lips as she spoke. "Yeah. Brandon invited me over for Christmas dinner because I'm on pretty good terms with the family. His uncle was wearing this horrid red sweater and drinking egg nog in the living room when I stumbled in to put a present in Bran-Bran's stocking.

The detective internally winced at the pet name, and once Sophia's eyes dropped to her tangled fingers once more, Sherlock shot a glance at John. John raised his eyebrows and mouthed the name back, mocking the girl. Lestrade noticed this encounter and leaned into Sally. "Is it just me, or are these two… Different?"

"Don't put that evil on me, Greg." She whispered. After a moment of hesitation, of which Sherlock and John had continued to stare at each other, she added, "Fine. I see it, too."

Sophia met Sherlock's eyes once more, though their intensity kept her from meeting them for too long. "Did he speak to you?" Sherlock asked, waiting for Sophia to prove what he hypothesized.

"Yes. It was creepy, he said I looked like Brandon's mother. He must've been drunk or something."

And with that, Sherlock stood from the table, his impeccably large hands pressed flat against the surface. "Do you see now?" Sherlock directed the question to Sally and Lestrade. The detective inspector was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, dark overcoat pulled in by his strong forearms. Sally was skeptical. 

"So the uncle was flirting with her at the Christmas party. Why did he capture the boy then?" she asked.

"You see, but you do not observe. Look at Sophia. Just before she sat down, she was taller than John and she's only seventeen. She's frail and petite, and her hair is dark. How did Lestrade describe the mother? In that same way. Sophia, show us your wrists."

The girl was nervous, but she did as she was commanded, pulling the sleeve of her left arm to reveal a frighteningly slim joint. "Thin wrists."

"I suppose she rather looks like the mother…" Lestrade was understanding, and he nodded to John for support. "John, thoughts?"

"Hm." John took a moment to place his words accordingly. He understood the situation only partially, but he tried to mimic Sherlock in his deductions. "Pardon, Sophia, but what were you wearing to that Christmas party?"

Sophia covered her small chest shamefully. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Answer the question, my colleagues are finally catching up."

"A red dress, I think. He told me to dress nice."

Sherlock walked towards John with long strides and came close to him before taking his coat. "And you arrived looking more adult than any of the family expected, I suspect. Your use of cosmetics on a lazy February school day lead me to believe that you made yourself up for the party. Am I correct?"

"Well, yes…" 

John finished the deduction. "And the uncle, in his egg-nog induced stupor, found that you looked like a young version of his sister-in-law."

"And you think that happenstance alone brought him to kidnapping his own nephew a month later?"

Sherlock sighed and spun towards Sally, who received a 'You're in for an earful' look from both John and Lestrade. "Sentiment. Most people let it drive them mad, as is the case with this… Well, case. David, the uncle, had an attraction to the mother when they were younger, which only increased in intensity as he grew old, unsuccessful, and lonely. He stayed at his brother's house because he'd been letting his own apartment turn to rubbish, and there, the old spark returned upon seeing the mother. A domestic fight about past sibling rivalry commenced. Now, once the brother finally let the uncle back into the house, he's met with a wary eye from the mother and a dolled-up teenage replica of her. After a month of hearing nothing but praise for Brandon's girlfriend, good on you, by the way, Sophia, he grew attached." Sophia muttered her disgust but Sherlock talked over her. "It didn't help that every day, Brandon grew up to look more like his father. The better looking child who got the girl, definitely cause for some maniac tendencies, yes?"

"But why wait until the yesterday to kidnap the boy? Who is still in captivity, mind you. Our team is searching warehouses in the area at the moment."

"He snapped. The father, in his oh-so-forgiving nature let the uncle spend the day with his son. A broken family will always try to repair itself, no matter how deep the cracks. So, the uncle shows up at the school and sees his teenaged brother giving his teenaged hopeless love a kiss in the parking lot. Kidnapping commences."

John was in awe, reveling in the strange pride he felt for his partner.

Sophia was utterly horrified at this point. "So you're saying this is all my fault? Brandon's been kidnapped by that creep because I look too much like his mother?"

Sherlock struggled to keep a sarcastic bite back at the pretentious accusation. He only found solace in John's steady eyes and spoke to the girl coolly. "You look like a struggling anorexic: thin, fragile, pale. Brandon's mother had a similar if not the same condition, which causes more tension for her. She most likely had it the worst when she was younger, which is why David was so drawn to you and all your nervous habits."

"You can't possibly know that," Sophia said, offended.

"Can't I? And Lestrade, you'll find the warehouse farther outside the borders of the city. Most likely closer to his childhood home. David and his brother grew up outside of the walls."

"Alright. I'll call the squad." Lestrade dialed up his officers.

John was brimming with pride at this point. In total, it'd been nearly a ten minute discussion, and he was fairly certain Sherlock had deduced everything as soon as he saw the girl fidgeting outside the office. Sally Donovan,while impressed, still had to question Sherlock's tactics.

"And how do you know you'll find them outside city borders?"

"David is a wreck, enough to kidnap his nephew. He's uncomfortable and struggling in the bustling life of London. He grew up in a smaller community. Not a large leap. Do _think_ for once, Donovan."

Sherlock had made his claim. The girl was offended, as was Sally, and John was looking at him like he'd just performed a brilliant play. He fluffed his scarf, which he'd tied while speaking, and disappeared out the door, eager to make it to the warehouse. He stopped in the doorway, one hand on the frame, "Oh, and Sally, do give my best to Anderson. I hope he recovers from the cold you gave him."

And with that, he was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love having to think of a case, along with creating Sherlock's pathway to solving it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The detective inspector and John Watson watched Sherlock as if he were some unnatural being.

The police force had already found, retrieved, and pampered the hurt boy by the time Sherlock, John, Sally, Sophia, and Lestrade entered a broken down warehouse just outside London. Sophia had persuaded Donovan to let her come along with the addition of a snide remark about Sherlock, to which Donovan responded with, "I like her." 

Said warehouse was full of holes and weeds, with dusty grounds and damp spots. The metal casing was patched with wood and the wide sliding doors were coated in rust but lay on the floor after being kicked in. The set up was simple, a blanket and some rope, where Brandon had been tied. David had been able to drive his car inside, which kept it hidden from passing citizens. He had camped in it as he waited to be caught. Brandon was scared and bruised, but the cuts that the uncle had threatened to mark were nowhere on his body. The uncle, however, seemed to be unarmed and went with the forces almost calmly. 

The men and Sally Donovan now looked on at the scene.

Sophia ran to Brandon upon seeing him, and Sherlock watched the encounter curiously. She began to weep into his shoulder, his arms strongly holding her, despite them being weak. John appeared beside Sherlock as Lestrade spoke to his officers on ajob well done.

"Poor kid. It's not his fault his uncle is like this. What crazy things people do for love, eh, Sherlock?" John nudged Sherlock's arm, the joke more forward than he'd ever tried before.

"Love didn't cause him to do this, obsession did."

John couldn't look away from Sherlock's profile, the silver clouds peeking the gaping hole in the ceiling illuminating his prominent nose. "Oh, how the tables have turned. Sherlock Holmes telling me what love isn't." John crossed a boundary with this, and he knew it, but he was in awe and only wanted to see Sherlock smirk. He didn't.

"I'm not an idiot, John. I may not know about love and sentiment to a high extent, but I do know what borders on insanity. Ah, Lestrade. May I speak to the man of the hour?" Lestrade had bounded over curiously, although he felt as if he was interrupting something.

"If you feel the need. He's tied up over there."

Sherlock snorted. "Classic. I'll be back, John." 

"He'll be put in the police car soon, so don't take ages taunting him," Lestrade muttered the last bit to John, his words being swept under Sherlock's dress shoe heel as it turned on the pavement.

Sherlock's dark coat soared over the grimy ground elegantly as he glided towards the kidnapper.

* * *

Lestrade dug his hands into his pockets to keep himself from biting his thumb like a schoolboy. "So… You and Sherlock seem to be getting on well."

John and Lestrade watched as Sherlock spoke to the thick bodied man with a solid brow, his snarl no match for Sherlock's. 

 _Lestrade's noticed something now, too?_ John thought. "We've always gotten on well."

"I mean, exceptionally well. Today. And in the car ride here, too. You seemed very fond of each other."

 _Oh._ "I don't know what's changed, but something has. He's not as private around me anymore."

Lestrade popped a brow, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Mycroft mentioned to me that it was you and Sherlock's anniversary on Sunday. How'd the first year of marriage treat you?"

John's stomach dropped and he clenched his fists. "Very funny. I haven't managed to kill myself yet, if that's what you mean." _The farthest from it I've been in a while,_ John recounted his previous sorrows.

The detective inspector and John Watson watched Sherlock as if he were some unnatural being. He spoke to the kidnapper as if he were a child, bending at his waist and scolding him. John huffed a laugh. Lestrade spoke for him. "What a piece of work."

* * *

"So you believed that if you couldn't have your brother's wife, his reincarnation shouldn't have one either? Are you really so lonely that you needed to reenact your fantasies by kidnapping the proof of your obsession's betrayal? If you can call it that."

The man stared Sherlock down, whiskey on his breath. He was uncomfortable in the situation, but he forced himself to maintain eye contact with the brilliant green irises that plagued him now. Sherlock leaned in closer, taunting the man. He partly wanted to show off to John, another fraction sparking from his need to push his own boundaries. 

"Pathetic. In love with his brother's girl. And this is the proof. How sad."

With that, the man snapped and lashed an arm at Sherlock from his broken bind and swiped a small blade at his face. Luckily, Sherlock's overactive brain pulled him back just enough from the attack that only his cheek was grazed by the knife. 

John started from his position beside Lestrade at the sight, but before he could jog over, Lestrade's forces were restraining Brandon's uncle.

Sherlock's pale fingers flew to his right cheek and withdrew blood. He rolled his eyes as the sounds of the struggle were muffled by the closing of the car door. David was still twitching, but his arms were now bound behind his back and not beside his pocket, from which he hid the blade and cut the rope. 

The victim of the slash walked calmly back to John and Lestrade.

"Sherlock! Are you alright?"

"Obviously, John. Geoff, that man was not completely searched. He was concealing a weapon. Tell your men to do their jobs."

"I - I… Hey!" Lestrade called at the officers that had just stuffed the kidnapper into the backseat as John and Sherlock walked away.

Sherlock hissed when he touched his cheek, John oddly fascinated by the sight of him with a flush of embarrassment. Once a good distance away from Lestrade and the crime scene, John and Sherlock spoke like friends once more.

"Seemed I got too carried away," Sherlock admitted.

"Of course you would."

"Is it still bleeding?" Sherlock turned his head so the cut faced John, his jaw and neck strong. John was momentarily fazed by his profile, now with the added attraction of blood.

"A bit." 

"Hmph."

John shuffled his feet and chuckled to himself. "You've solved this case Sherlock, and the thanks you get is a nick on your cheek." Sherlock smiled John's smile, but John spoke first. "Don't worry, with your cheekbones and your turned coat collar, it only makes you look cool." _And sexy. God, and sexy._

Sherlock turned back towards the warehouse to hide his smirk. Lestrade was yelling at his men. He slapped a palm to his face when the rookie police officer just shrugged.

"I don't mind." Sherlock said in response to nothing in particular.

"What?" John knit his brows.

"The cut."

"Why would you? It's sexy." _Wait, shit, what?_

* * *

Sherlock smirked. "Glad you think, so, John." _Confirmed: John Watson thinks cuts are attractive on Sherlock Holmes. New experiment, see how John reacts to other alterations of my appearance._ "Time to go. Get in." John wanted to lock himself in the car and drive it off a cliff.

Lestrade finally waved the police car off and returned to his own. "Sorry, Sherlock."

"'Tis but a scratch." _Apparently it makes me look "cool" and "sexy."_ He repeated the phrase once more in his mind, liking the sound and connotations of it when describing himself.

The men climbed into the car, and Sally left the crime scene to take Brandon and Sophia home in a cab that she'd called. John was too flustered to speak, and he kept vituperating himself for the ridiculous confession. Within a few minutes of the car traveling down the road back to the city, Sherlock returned his knee to its close proximity of John's. 

The gentle pressure of his bone touching John's reminded him that breaching new territory wasn't just lovely, but mandatory for progressing their relationship.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade appreciation chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John keeled over as he sat on the edge of his bed, raking his fingers through his hair, his thoughts leaping from one point to the next like a cat on the ledge of a topiary maze.

By the time Sherlock and John had settled back into 221B Baker Street, Sherlock was buzzing with excitement at his newfound data. John was nervously wringing his hands, worried that Sherlock would deduce his "crush" on the man. The detective and his colleague were sitting placidly in their chairs, Sherlock staring John down with curious intent. His voice roused John from his reflection, its deep tone coating John in strange heat, despite its icy touch. Sherlock recalled what John had said about the cut on his cheek.

Sherlock leaned forward and clasped his hands, "It's just transport."

"What?"

"My body. It's casing for my mind, the only feature I care about."

John swallowed, his throat suspiciously dry. He didn't know if he should explain what he meant or not. "I didn't - "

The detective popped his brow and it made John think naughty things. "I'm not oblivious John, I know I'm handsome. Your reactions make that very clear."

The blush that crept under John's skin was now flushing itself across his cheeks and prickling the tips of his ears. "Uhhh…"

It was silent for a moment until Sherlock craned his neck and pushed his back into his chair. "Are you going to say anything?"

John was stunned, but he took the opportunity Sherlock was laying out for him. The air in the room seemed heavy. This was something John never thought they'd speak about. Sure, he made quips and jokes about Sherlock wooing their clients with some smooth words, but he'd never breached the territory with himself as the subject. John sat now, clenching his fists as he did when he was nervous about something related to Sherlock. The room behind Sherlock was still, the man himself calm and waiting.

"Look." John found his voice. "I'm not good at this sort of stuff, but… It's no secret that you're handsome. You and your bloody… cheekbones… And yes, my reactions are as such because of this. I've found you attractive since the day I saw you at Bart's. But it's not just that you look sleek in a suit, it's that I can't ignore you. You and this dangerous lifestyle that we have here, going on cases, interrogating criminals, it attracts me. If I hadn't stumbled into this life…" John trailed off, he'd met the extent of his confession for the moment.

Sherlock wasn't expecting any of that. He just wanted to tease John. He blinked his wide eyes back to their usual size and thought. Seemed that John had no trouble chatting up women, but now - confessing to Sherlock simply that he found him appealing was a struggle. It was touching, but also confusing. Sherlock needed more data.

"John, of course you're attracted to danger. That's why you had trouble adapting after the war. You need that element of death or else you feel incomplete. I understand why you follow me around, because I carry death with me."

John was upset now. He was upset that he'd been so stupid in his confession and he was angry that Sherlock didn't understand what he was trying to say. "No - that's not… I'm trying to tell you that I'm attracted to _you._ I tried to tell you the night we met but you shot me down, and I know I'm more experienced in this area with women, but how could I have just chatted you up when we were planning on becoming flatmates? How awkward would that have been? And I know you said you were married to your work, and I understand that. I'm not trying to… date you. Not anymore." John had stood up, hoping his raised height would give him the support he lacked.

"I see." Something in Sherlock sunk to his stomach upon hearing the tone that John spat out those last words with.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I have a headache. I'm sorry. I'm going to bed." John turned and nearly tripped on the corner of his chair. His fingernails had dug rivets into his palms. He climbed the stairs quickly, shutting the door to his bedroom hard as if he wanted Sherlock to feel locked out.

* * *

John keeled over as he sat on the edge of his bed, raking his fingers through his hair, his thoughts leaping from one point to the next like a cat on the ledge of a topiary maze.

 _I had to say it. I couldn't have held my tongue. And he just stared at me, as if I was so pathetic for insisting that he understand. Of course he doesn't. He doesn't get why it's unacceptable for me to find him handsome. Does he even know that I find men attractive? He does now. Sodding Sherlock with his sodding curls and his sodding cheekbones… Maybe he's one of the only people who's ever taken my breath away. Wow, that was pretty gay. Bloody Sherlock! Why is this so difficult? Why is it all so tense? Why isn't everything all fine? Why can't it be okay for me to say it? Yes, I'm attracted to you, Sherlock. No, it's not easy when you're so adamantly against relationships and sex! Not that sex is the only important thing in relationships… But it sure as hell plagues me at night. Okay. So I was attracted to him. What is it? A "crush?" Whatever it is, I had to push it away because we work and live together. And he wasn't interested. Of course he wasn't. Who would be interested in me? How could Sherlock Holmes, only consulting detective in the world and remarkable genius "like"_ me? _It's a surprise he's put up with me for this long already. No, we're not doing this. He's too hard to unscramble. One day, he presses his knee up against mine, the next he's ignorantly avoiding the thing we haven't spoken of since… well, ever. I know that it's there - this looming idea that we can't be innocent flatmates forever. Everyone thinks there's something more. And I always deny it because it would make Sherlock uncomfortable if I were to say "Yeah, sometimes I wonder if we_ are _a couple.'" Oh God, I made him uncomfortable. Fuck! No, no, it's good. It's good to let him know. I either let this petty crush go or I leave it to him to make a decision. Even if I know what that decision is. Why would he think of dating me, if he chose to date at all? I'd just get on his nerves. Well, he seemed accepting of my stupid comment. Maybe things will change. No. They won't. I'm not just going to wake up to Sherlock in an apron holding a plate of eggs and saying, "Good morning, John. I made breakfast for the best boyfriend ever!" That's laughable. This situation is laughable. We deal with child molesters and corpses on a weekly basis, for God's sake! But then… There's some days. When everything seems almost normal. LIke we'll play a game. And flirt. God, the flirting. He does that on purpose to mess with me, he wouldn't be flirting with me if not to experiment on me or test me or test himself. Is he even gay? Queer? I don't know. It doesn't matter. I don't think he's anything._

John raised his head and stared at the doorknob, expecting it to rattle and for Sherlock to come barging in.

* * *

Sherlock had contemplated following John and apologizing for not being more understanding, but he didn't know how. He waited for about twenty seconds before he leapt from his chair and carefully sneaked up the stairs. He waited outside the closed door, the sound of John's heavy breathing digging into him like the needles he so often dreamt of.

_John. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I don't know how to handle these things. You're clearly upset with how long it took for you to say that, and now that you have, you wonder if it will be awkward for us. I don't know why it would, but it is now. I'm pleased that you are attracted to me and have made it painfully clear that you are - now it's established that this fragile relationship isn't as one sided as I thought. … John is incredible. He is handsome and loyal and powerful and intelligent and he puts up with me - I admire him for that, I can barely put with myself. What am I supposed to say? I don't know how to get choked up like that, I don't think I ever have. If I have something to say, I'll say it. But it's harder for him, because he thinks I shot him down. I didn't. Not really. I just… I didn't know him. I didn't know you. John, I know you now. I'm more aware of how much work it will take to continue this relationship. I know that you'll seek release in women, and I hate myself because I can't give that to you - not yet, if ever. I don't know. It seems strange, sex. Is that what you want? Is that why you're attracted to me? You said I was sexy. Am I? What does that mean? Based on the videos and pictures I've found on his computer, it means it makes him think of sex. But it's nearly pointless. If someone needs to seek sexual release, there's masturbation. Seldom performed by me personally, but it helps. John… John, I'm so sorry. I don't know how to deal with these things. Do I walk in and say, "You're not alone, I find myself attracted to you, too?" Mycroft's words still remind me of the dangers of caring. If I were to tell John that I feel the same, would I have to explain that I haven't felt this since we first met? That it's more that I found him appealing but only ever begin to be sexually attracted to him recently? He said he used to want to date me. But now he doesn't want to. Does this mean we are not a couple anymore? Will the dates stop? I don't… Were we ever dating? No. No, I'm not going to dwell on this. John, John. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I don't know how to play this sort of game. I'm sorry if you don't know that I don't understand sex with people. I'm sorry I've never told you that I think you and I work well together. I'm sorry you felt so trapped and scared when you complimented me. I'm mostly sorry that it's me you're attracted to. I've pulled you into this life and endangered you, and now you've gone and locked yourself in your room because I don't have the knowledge I need to respond to your social cues. I'm sorry I never learned how to tell a man I like to spend time with him, but I know all the letters of the greek alphabet and how to find a woman's ovulation cycle based on her dialect. I'm sorry it's me. I'm sorry I'm me. I'm sorry._

The curly head of the detective was now resting on the door, his tall frame supporting himself with palms flat against the wood. He wanted to open the door, but he only knocked. He was met with silence. _Say it. Just say it._ "John."

"Sherlock." The voice from the other side of the door was muffled and sounded strained, which caused Sherlock to tense. The problem had become much more tangible, now that he could hear the hurt in John's voice.

"I may know what links construction workers to sandwich shop owners, and I may know how to speak French, but I know nothing of… this. I'm sorry if I offended you by my response, I just don't understand." The words were sentimental and heavy and unlike Sherlock, but he forced himself to step out of character if it meant John would be happy.

"True, you don't know." John paused, but Sherlock deduced that he'd speak again. "And I can't blame you for that."

His forehead was still pressed to the door, and it vibrated when he spoke, his lips grazing the wood. "Thank you."

"I'm sorry to have snapped on you like that. I just - " 

Sherlock held his breath.

* * *

John felt more secure with the door between him and Sherlock, and he knew that it was easier to say without Sherlock's judging eyes peering him down. He had moved from the bed to the door, cautiously waiting to hear a sign of empathy from the detective.

"It's hard to have told you that because I know you don't need this in your life. I know you don't need…" _Me._

"John."

"No, no - listen. This is the only time I'm going to say this so you better be listening." John's hand had found its way to the door. If he hadn't been swallowing his pride, he would've sworn he could feel Sherlock's directly adjacent his on the other side.

"Alright."

"You're hard to deal with. You know that. Lestrade knows that. Mrs. Hudson knows that. And it's hard to stand beside you when you're listing off your incredible deductions and solving cases in minutes. It doesn't help that you're tall and thin and pale and - now I don't say that often because I'm a fairly confident man. I mean, I invaded Afghanistan." He heard Sherlock chuckle, which lightened the weight of the words. "Yes. Yes, I'm confident and strangely proud of being the one to deal with you on the daily. But I know that it's not the same for you. You don't have to parade around after me, it's always me after you." _Like a puppy, I am. I trail you like a puppy._ "So, yes, it took me a long time to break this strange veil we have going and bring to light what happened, or rather, what _didn't_ happen that night we chased the cabbie because I feel like it's not worth it to mention. You don't know about relationships and dating so why should I struggle to work it out with you and not just date any plain Jane I see at Tesco? I'm overstepping my boundaries here, and I know you're not going to understand, but… It's just better if we don't try and do this. Especially because of the circumstances." _Not that there's anything to work out. I know you don't know what my true intentions are. I think you don't want to know them._ "Are you still there?"

"Yes."

"Okay. You can talk now. I just wanted to say that. I won't mention it again, if you ask me to."

"No. We need to keep this open. We need to be able to joke and speak lightly. Even if we don't really understand. I know I'm clueless in dealing with these affairs. I always have been. In school, girls would tell me they liked me and I would just blink at them and ask 'Why?' … That's not good. But I'm willing… John, you're listening? I'm willing to try. I'll try to learn about this and how to deal with things like this if it means everything will be fine. Does that sound reasonable?"

John smiled. "Yes."

"Are you going to open the door now?"

"Not yet."

"Tell me what I need to do."

"Tell me what you think of me. Truly. Because I've been guessing all year."

* * *

Sherlock grinned and sucked his lip in in preparation. He slid his palms down the flat of the door. _Where do I start?_ "Well, I don't think you're unintelligent. You're smart and sharp and quick. And I know that you're loyal to those you care about, like Mrs. Hudson and now, me. I appreciate that. You have undeniable honor and strength, not just from the war, but for dealing with my ridiculous arse through all of this. I think that I'm lucky to have you beside me on cases and I enjoy waking up to the sight of you in my robe - no matter how much I say otherwise. All of this is so unlike me to say, which is a problem in itself, but I do care about you. When we're on cases, I'm worried that you'll get hurt. You're my flatmate, my partner, and my right hand man. You've saved my life countless times, from one addiction or another. And I guess it helps that you're one handsome bugger. So, that's what I think of you."

John opened the door, Sherlock's hands flying to the frames. John was looking up at the tall figure and smiling. "I'm handsome?"

"Don't make me say it again."

"Fine. Chinese or Thai?" 

"Thai." 

John brushed past Sherlock, closely leaning his solid body in, nearly humming with happiness. Sherlock, in a way, had just confessed to being willing to work on their relationship in _that_ way. John hadn't been as wrong as he'd thought, it seemed. He bounced down the stairs, his cheeks still tight from smiling. Sherlock looked on and followed

_What have I gotten myself into, now?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mr. President, Mr. President!"  
> "What is it?"  
> "It's John and Sherlock's veil of 'Just Flatmates!'"  
> "What about it?"  
> "It's been severed!"  
> "RED ALERT! SOUND THE ALARMS!"


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock stood a few more seconds in silence, sipping his tea, before he grew antsy and wanted John to look at him again.

John was denying that the day previous had actually happened when Sherlock emerged from the bathroom. His presence made the room tighter and John could smell his hair product before he raised his eyes, but the tall figure of the man did not stop to say good morning before crossing the living room in front of John.

He raised his eyes from the paper only when something felt off, Sherlock's usual post-shower robe paler than usual. The sight he was met with dropped his stomach to his crotch and enflamed his cheeks and ears. Sherlock was naked, save for a towel wrapped around his thin waist, rubbing a flannel through his damp curls in front of the living room mirror. 

His body was slender and long, but his shoulders and back dimples made John sure that he was strong enough to perform the exhausting task that flooded his mind with images. John couldn't tear his eyes away, Sherlock's pale skin glistening with droplets from his shower. It was so natural, this state, and yet so unlike Sherlock. It was almost as if John was looking into the sun, but it was too rare an opportunity to look away, despite Sherlock's skin resembling the moon instead. Sherlock rubbed the white cloth over the back of his neck for a final time before locking his eyes with John in the mirror. 

The doctor pulled his gaze away nervously and readjusted the newspaper in his lap to cover himself. Sherlock did not speak. He only crossed the living room once again, closer proximity to John than before, and flitted about the kitchen fixing his tea.

John was aware that Sherlock was behind him, shirtless, probably accidentally spilling honey onto his chest like some sort of perverse tease. He wasn't, but John swore he was based on the humming and squeaking sounds Sherlock made as he nearly burned himself with hot water. 

There were few moments in John and Sherlock's life when John had become aroused and bothered within the proximity of Sherlock. The first was when they were crammed in the backseat of a taxi, high off the thrill of a particularly exciting case. The second was the time John had stumbled into the kitchen in the middle of the night, searching for a snack, only to find Sherlock draped on the couch in that glorious blue robe, which had fallen open to reveal a pale thigh and hip from his dramatic posture. The third was now, as Sherlock acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Of course, what he was doing was teasing John, parading his brain's casing around like a show, eager to see John's reaction and further explore what they'd promised the day before.

Being used to such a feeling, John did not let his reaction cause him to jump up and sprint to his room - he calmly collected himself and avoided Sherlock's eyes until he'd cooled off. By the time Sherlock did come to a stop beside John's chair, however, he was close enough for John to count the freckles that dusted his left hip. "Morning," Sherlock said, tea in hand.

"Morning. Slept well?"

"Indeed."

"That pastry shop down the street closed, I hear."

"Hm."

"The owner was nice. I feel bad."

"Hm."

"Is the cut better?"

"Hm?"

"The cut, on your cheek, from the case."

"Oh. I don't know, I can't feel it. Does it look better?" Sherlock leaned down and placed his face close to John's. John tried to ignore the smell of mint on Sherlock's breath and the way his eyes had flecks of gold in them. He also definitely did not notice how his face was cleanly shaved and was as smooth and flawless as ever.

"Uh, yeah. It's just a scratch, you'll be fine." John moved his face away as Sherlock pulled himself back up, the crinkles of his abdomen disappearing as he elongated. John cleared his throat, visibly affected by Sherlock's proximity and eye-level navel. "Anything on for today?"

"We've just solved a case, today is a day to relax."

"Those are words I'd never think you'd speak, Mr. I'm-Married-to-My-Work."

"Maybe I'm divorcing."

"Maybe."

John was darting his grey eyes from Sherlock's skin to Sherlock's eyes to Sherlock's cup to Sherlock's chair to Sherlock's violin and back to Sherlock's skin, and Sherlock found himself rather pleased. John was attempting light flirting, and it seemed to be distracting him, but his snide remark and smug grin made Sherlock feel strange and he remembered that things were different. John chewed on his bottom lip and reread the same paragraph of the paper, the hem of his favorite striped long sleeve receiving a thorough rubbing. _Nervous habit. How cute._ Sherlock stood a few more seconds in silence, sipping his tea, before he grew antsy and wanted John to look at him again. He leaned forward and over John and set his tea down on the small table beside him. Once his neck was no longer a foot or so away from John's mouth, he reared back and stretched his torso. He pulled his arms up and flexed them, something he thought he'd never do because of its pretentious connotations. The towel rode lower on his hips with his stretch, and once he returned to a vertical stance, John was furrowing his brows and concentrating so hard on the paper, Sherlock was sure he'd set it aflame.

Before the tips of the crossword section began smoking, Sherlock disappeared into his room to change.

* * *

_Are you kidding me? Are you_ kidding  _me? "Let me just stand here for a solid five minutes, my pelvis just two feet away from your face!" What does he think he's doing? I know we agreed that we'd help each other through… this… but this man will_ kill  _me if he continues on like this._ John took his moment alone to readjust himself fully, but the brushing of his fingers over his (unfortunately still prominent) bulge only made things worse. He wanted to just soak in the newfound comfort that Sherlock had around him, he wanted to be able to flirt and laugh and talk like normal, but he couldn't because Sherlock was magnificent and half naked and  _Did I mention bloody attractive?_

When Sherlock entered the living room once more, he had replaced the towel with his black sweats, and John was sure he wasn't wearing pants under them. He tried not to look at the outline of Sherlock's cock beneath the fabric. He tried, but he failed. 

"I'm thinking of doing some experiments today," Sherlock said as he positioned himself on the couch so everything was expanded and stretched and he could show off every glorious inch of his torso.

"Hopefully nothing including skin corrosive substances…" John muttered.

"What was that?"

"I said 'What kind of experiments?'" 

Sherlock smirked in such a way that John was momentarily phased by the sight of him, lounging there on the couch, waving his slender fingers through the air as if he were sorting files. John thought of how lucky he was to have this view and this man whenever he wanted. _Well, almost._

"Just some tests. And you?" Sherlock's chest rose and fell beautifully as he spoke upwards, his sharp nose turned towards the ceiling. 

"Don't know. Maybe I'll take a walk…"

John stood and tried to move across the room inconspicuously. He held the newspaper close to himself and disappeared into his room, leaving Sherlock to himself. 

The detective muttered to himself, a sense of smugness about him. "Seems John Watson does indeed find Sherlock Holmes acceptable." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's such a flirty asshole. I love him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was familiar, this tense silence.

John came back downstairs and was cool and calm once more. He had changed into more restricting clothes and had shaved. Sherlock had changed as well, but it wasn't much of an improvement, seeing as he left his blue robe open. John moved with purpose into the kitchen, avoiding Sherlock's body on the couch. He opened the fridge and closed it without retrieving anything. He looked for scones but didn't find any. The kitchen was useless in distracting him, however. Sherlock's voice roused John from his repressed state and he was forced to come back to his blessed reality.

"Don't you have a job?" The detective asked. 

The truth was this: John did have a job. He worked at the clinic as a doctor, but it was a strange arrangement. He had persuaded the manager to let him work on his own hours because he was involved in "aiding the police" on cases, as he put it. The manager reluctantly agreed, a helpful nudge from Mycroft winning John his argument. The clinic was stocked with doctors, so it was not critical that John be there daily, but he did need a steady flow of income, so when Sherlock was being particularly rude or cold, John went in and made the money they needed to buy milk and tea and takeout. He hadn't gone into work for a while because of the case and, if he was being honest with himself, the change of atmosphere between him and Sherlock. The chance that the breaking new boundaries would cause them to end up as more than flatmates was too tempting to leave. John wasn't particularly fond of working at the clinic, either. Not only were some of his past sexual escapades working there, but testing old men for prostate cancer was not his favorite pastime. Not when there was a beautiful genius draped like art on the couch at home, that is.

"Yes. Eager to have me leave, are you?" John added a sharp remark to keep himself from saying something too nice. He didn't want to let Sherlock win the game this time. He knew that once he praised Sherlock, the detective's cold composure would melt away. John couldn't keep himself composed when Sherlock responded so positively to praise, even more so now that Sherlock and he were… _What are we?_

* * *

Sherlock blinked, his eyes refocusing on a dark spot on the ceiling. He had added his robe since his experiment provided an outcome, but he felt more comfortable around John since the change, and he let it fall in halves on both sides of his body, his torso exposed once more. "No. We need more groceries."

"I've just gone shopping. Remember, you couldn't find the milk earlier this week?"

Something about the sound of John's voice made Sherlock feel more at home. He went on talking to him even when he wasn't there, just for his own sanity - but it made him suspiciously happy hearing that sarcastic wanker's voice. Sherlock took a second to let the sound sink in, seemed it was the only thing that made him forget how much he hated himself most of the time.

"Right. You should go to work, though. Somebody needs to pay for utilities in this house and God knows it won't be me." _I'm just here to show off and solve cases. I'm no help for chores._

"Hm. Alright." John took a seat in his chair and clasped his hands in his lap. 

Sherlock could feel him looking over. He swallowed hard before speaking, "So are you going in?"

"Tomorrow."

"Not later today?"

"I don't know. Stop asking questions."

"Hm." Sherlock wanted to say everything, but he couldn't find the words. He wanted to mention yesterday, he wanted John to tell him exactly what he meant by what he'd said. Sherlock took the silent moment to lay out the facts as he often did. John did the same.

* * *

 _Something's different. Yesterday must have affected him as much as me. He's probably uncomfortable and thinks I'm trying to stay home so I can try and shag him. …_ John caught himself, _Is that not what I'm trying to do, though?_ Sherlock had tied his robe as John was thinking, but John raised his eyes back to Sherlock's form as he caught his movement. Sherlock had turned away from him on the couch, his satin blue back facing him now. _No. That's not what I'm trying to do. I'm trying to figure this bastard out. He said he didn't know about things like confessions of attraction and the proper amount of flirting with your flatmate and crime-solving partner, but then again… He did walk around the flat shirtless for the first time. Does he feel the change, too? Is it a good thing?_

The spot between John's eyebrows began to hurt and he realized he was furrowing them in thought. Sherlock was still turned away from him. John didn't know what to say. He wanted to mention yesterday, but as the silence continued, the amount of tension between them grew. It was familiar, this tense silence. It made things more real. John hated it as much as he needed it. But that was just what happened with them. They came close to a breakthrough and then darted around the subject, knowing it had happened but never speaking of it it. John and Sherlock both knew that they were playing a game of attraction, but neither of them would bring it up again, no matter how much they wanted to. 

John took the shun as a sign to actually go to work for once, and as he stood from the chair, he looked at Sherlock's curled form once more before slipping out the door past Mrs. Hudson. He nodded a curt hello and galloped down the stairs.

"You boys have a little domestic?" she asked.

"Mrs. Hudson, tell me," Sherlock said, his voice trapped in the backrest of the couch. 

The landlady began tidying up the kitchen. She was determined to throw away the old lettuce and soggy biscuits she found lying about. She sought comfort in making the kitchen livable, and she settled in for Sherlock's speech. "I can't hear you darling, face this way."

Sherlock bounced upright into a seated position, his hands flying to his hair like the drama queen he was. "What am I supposed to do? Tell me what to do."

"About what, dear?" Mrs. Hudson opened the kitchen window and swept the cobwebs from the corners.

"This." He gestured the entirety of the room, his now azure eyes pleading at her for guidance.

"John, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Has something happened?" She threw the old food into the bin under the sink and hid her smirk from the detective.

Sherlock bowed his head in his hands, "I think so. Yesterday, after the case, we sort of… Breached new territory. If that's a useful term to you."

"Sherlock. Change is crucial for you boys, especially this kind. Whatever you're scared of is good for you both. It means something grand is about to happen."

His toes curled into the carpet, "That's somewhat logical."

Mrs. Hudson nodded and finished her cleaning, content with the vague advice she'd given. Sherlock resumed his pouting. After ten minutes of fixing up the flat, Mrs. Hudson disappeared as secretly as she'd appeared. On her way out, however, Mrs. Hudson would be certain to have the last word.

Sherlock's robe had loosened in his bouncing and thrashing, and his bare chest was exposed beneath the two halves. 

"You'll work it out with him. And I'm sure he appreciates the wardrobe change, as well."

The man glanced down at his chest, his pale skin and light dusting of freckles peering at him from the opening in his robe. Mrs. Hudson had gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the fuck does John do about work, with cases and such? Pfft.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They played a dance, ever-so-slyly infecting their phrases with hidden meaning.

John smiled comfortingly as his patient waved and disappeared from his office. _Mycroft really got me a good gig here,_ he thought as he snapped off his gloves and threw them away. Earlier that day, his manager had given him the stink eye when he had arrived, but John just moved past him and disappeared. 

The first patient that came in was a teenage girl. He had to talk to her about birth control. The next was an older gentlemen with a spot on his thigh. The ones after that were twins with sore joints and finally a woman with a lump on her breast. It turned out to be a spider bite. She was nice and rather flirtatious, but John found himself thinking of something else as he inspected her. By the time she had gone and he had put in enough hours for a sub-par payment, he swiveled his chair and found a position to sit calmly in and think.

He replayed the strange conversation he and Sherlock had on both sides of his bedroom door. He thought of how different Sherlock acted when flaunted his moonlit torso around the flat. He noticed how Sherlock hadn't moved once he added a robe. He even noted the squeak of Mrs. Hudson once he was halfway down the stairs.

 _Yes,_ he thought, _something is definitely happening. The times, they are a-changing. … That was bad. Nevermind._ John dropped his head into his hands in hopes that his palms would cause some new idea to seep into his mind. He thought until his brows hurt and his neck grew sore, and he finally came to the conclusion that it was due time he went home. Home to where his home was. 

As he stood, a strange thought dawned on him that would have been too ridiculous for him to think of by force.

Maybe when Sherlock had said to John, "I'm willing to try," he meant "I'm willing to try to be in a relationship" with him. After all, he had said that he wasn't good at dealing with "these sort of affairs" when they had been talking about attraction and dating. Maybe Sherlock parading his body around was his way of noting that he's attractive and wants John to want to find him sexually appealing. Maybe he's alright with being flirtatious because he's found a way to make it work for him. Maybe this change was because they'd finally breached the line between tense flatmates and dating flatmates. Maybe they were a couple.

"Are we a couple?" John asked, his hand dramatically at the side of his face.

He recalled how everyone had assumed they were together. Now, it all made sense. How is it that he and Sherlock worked so well in both home and work, sassing each other, teasing, but never actually fighting? How is it that it took them so long to mention their attraction? How is it that John hadn't murdered the prick yet? John realized why. _Because we've been a couple the whole time… but now we're a_ couple. 

John nearly stumbled backwards and into one of his anatomy models. He struggled to breathe and then smiled very, very wide. He rushed out of his office, the woman from the one across the hall giving him a strange eye before tapping a little girl's knee. He hurried by the receptionist desk, the doe-eyed woman sitting there a past one-night stand. He felt a pang of regret at that, knowing now that he and Sherlock were probably secretly trying to work things out when he'd gone to her flat. 

The sound of the door slamming behind him rang through his ears like the first gunshot he'd fired to save Sherlock's life. Like a bullet from its casing, John had been sparked and was now painfully aware of everything he'd missed. 

Some time must have passed once John had left the clinic because he had found himself galloping up the stairs and into the flat before he knew it. His mind had been preoccupied with noting every detail and storing it like evidence. He wasn't even sure if he'd paid the cabbie. Luckily, once reality hit him, he was flushed and breathing hard, standing stiff in the doorway. The sight he was met with only secured his assumption.

Sherlock was peering over the rim of his safety goggles and tapping the side of a flask. A single, loose curl had escaped and was draped onto his forehead, his expression that of pure focus. The dark blue liquid that resided behind the glass bubbled slightly but mellowed once Sherlock had turned his head toward John. His eyes were sharp like lime, and a beautiful smile graced his face. John's stomach rivaled a skilled chef and his dazzling breakfast flare with its flapjack-like flip. The lines in Sherlock's cheeks stretched down to his chin and dripped with sincerity, and the fact that it was just for him made John nearly giddy. He swore his own face must have matched Sherlock's, but as he opened his lips to speak, he found his words caught.

The chemist set down his flask and removed his glasses and gloves, his blue robe replaced with his brown chemist's coat. He spoke for John. "Welcome home. How was work?"

"Fine." John had found his voice and was now swallowing down the dryness in his throat. Seeing Sherlock standing there, looking at him curiously, made him question the validity of their relationship. Surely speaking his realization would be strange and unwelcome, but pretending as if he'd never had it wouldn't allow Sherlock to deduce it. It was all complicated, really, but John was buzzing. He took his place at his chair but kneeled in it so he was facing the kitchen. He spread his hands over the curved brim and plaid blanket and gave Sherlock a rather sultry look. John was sure he looked ridiculous, but he didn't care. Sherlock had given him the green light to progress their relationship, in whatever way he did, and John took it.

John wanted to tease Sherlock as a sort of payback for earlier that morning. "The receptionist still works there, you know, the one I dated." 

* * *

"Briefly." Sherlock stiffened. Something had gotten into John and he was being playful. Sherlock wanted to just pop a brow, scowl, and look away as he would have weeks previous, but he knew that this was John's way of testing the waters, letting him know that he felt the rift as well. And he couldn't ignore that sunny countenance, those dangerously inspired navy eyes. John was looking at him funny, excited and expectant, and it was too mesmerizing to turn away. So he played the game. Sherlock always played the game. "Why should you mention it, are you two going out again?" 

John took the bait. "Oh no, nothing like that. And no reason that I mention it."

"No reason?" _Trying to make me jealous, are we? Isn't that a little petty, John?_

"No. I just remembered. It's nice, seeing old friends like that."

"She's just a friend?" _If she's a friend, what am I?_ Sherlock drew his top lip in, readying himself for whatever John could come back with.

"Well, she wasn't a particularly great shag way back when, and now she looks at me like I'm scum. Funny though, she's the one that dumped me."

"John Watson, always the dumpee, never the dumper." 

"That's not always true."

"Isn't it?"

* * *

John would never get enough of this. He would never tire of bagging on old girlfriends and he'd never be run down by Sherlock's quips. Of course, one or two about his weight or his sex life would eventually cause him to snap, but John felt like that wouldn't be the case anymore, now that Sherlock was willing to try being civil. No, this was fresh. This was fresh and cool and sleek, and Sherlock was leaning against the wall now, thin legs crossed at the ankles, sassy arms folded in.

 _I don't know. You wouldn't dump me, would you?_ "So, say I _were_ to end the next relationship I'm in. What situation would that be like? Who'd be getting dumped?"

They played a dance, ever-so-slyly infecting their phrases with hidden meaning.

Sherlock dropped his eyes to the floor and John already missed them. "Well, your next sexual conquest will probably be with a highly attractive woman with a sub-par taste in men and a mediocre job… You'll treat her to dinner and maybe a show, ask to go to her flat - no need taking her back here, what with your utterly mad flatmate and all - you'll spend… However long it takes to…" _Oh god, he's not going to -_ "complete the job, and then you'll disappear. If she persists, you'll tell her you had a very nice time but your job causes you to be busy most days. As for the use of the term 'dumping,' it depends how long you date her for. A one night stand and a three week girlfriend are different areas. Not that I'd know, girlfriends aren't really my area."

John scoffed dramatically as he pulled his spine straight. "I'm relatively offended. Granted, that's pretty accurate. You do make it seem as though I'm some sort of night-deviant, capturing maidens and breaking their hearts wherever I go. You didn't quite get it right, with that."

"Enlighten me." 

John cleared his throat, sure that Sherlock would have shied away from the subject as soon as he'd tried to mention sex. He hadn't, so John continued. "Well, I'm a bit more awkward when I ask a woman out. I'm forward about it, but if she shuts me down, it seems I don't know when to stop talking. If she says yes, you're right, I do take her out to dinner, but I hardly get off within the first two dates. I'm a gentlemen. If that does occur, however, I won't immediately run away like some villain. I'll continue to date her until we don't work out or she dumps me. Which she often does. Seems she finds me less exciting once I tell her I don't _actually_ work with the police."

"Interesting. Forgive me, John, I'd assumed you were more reckless in your endeavors."

"And what's all this about _girlfriends,_ you know the next relationship I have might not be with a woman." _Shit, that's new._ _Have I crossed my boundaries?_

* * *

 _Oh, would you look at that - he's attempting a confession. Hiding it, of course. John's not a great liar, he just scoots around the truth. John, I know you like men, too. Don't think I can't see you flirting at Lestrade. Oh, for God's sakes, let's not think about that._ Sherlock took a moment to collect his thoughts, the weight of the confession and the look in John's eyes causing him to heat with slight panic. He swallowed it down, remembering that promised to try.

"We can only hope," he said. "Women don't seem to _get_ you."

Sherlock felt his lips tilt upwards in time with John's. The doctor dipped his head with a chuckle, but when he pulled his eyes back up, he just raised his eyebrows expressively.

 _What a strange little man. How I have the pleasure of playing him constantly,_ Sherlock said to himself as he popped a brow in response.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And this is where you just want to slap yourself in the face with how ridiculously unspoken everything becomes.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donovan furrowed her brow in confusion and looked at Lestrade, who was smiling as if he'd just won a bet.

Sherlock appeared in John's room as he had a few days before, but this time he walked right in and sat beside John's curled form. "John," he said. "Lestrade wants us at Scotland Yard today. Will that be an issue?"

John grumbled his agreement and rolled over. Unfortunately for Sherlock, he rolled toward him, which caused his grumpy morning face to rest a few inches from his thigh. He looked down at the man.

He really was magnificent with his scruffy chin, his tired eyes his nose, and his father-like stern brow. The color of his skin offset Sherlock's pale, a touch of Afghanistan sun darkening the army doctor's face and hands. Sherlock waited a few moments before John opened his eyes, a slow, heavy-lidded pull. His navy irises were dark grey with sleep and he focused them on the fabric of Sherlock's pajamas before he raised them to Sherlock's face. Sherlock gave him a meek, apologetic smile.

* * *

The moon was shining down at him, complete with wild curls and alice blue eyes that matched his favorite robe.  A luminous beauty that John would never fully comprehend was sitting near to him, closer than he'd ever been. John's breath caught in his throat and he tried to swallow it away. The man who sat beside him now was a paragon of royalty, what with his sharp cheekbones and cupid's bow lips. John wondered how he ended up so lucky, how he returned from war and was thrown into this fascinating, dangerous life with this dangerously fascinating man. He wondered, but he didn't want to jinx it. Instead, he smiled softly and rustled beneath the covers to sit up. He rolled his neck and popped his back, sure Sherlock's eyes were still on him. He pushed up the black and white striped sleeves of his shirt and said good morning to Sherlock via expressive eyebrows. 

"Morning," he said back.

John awakened his legs and feet beneath the covers. He didn't want to stand up and shower yet, however. He liked sitting beside Sherlock. "So, Lestrade needs us again, you said?"

"Yes. Seems it's just closure of the kidnapping-uncle case. I deduced that he just missed us, though."

"Of course you did. …Does he need us anytime soon, or can I take a shower?" John used the word 'us' as many times and Sherlock did. It sounded nice coming from both of their lips.

"You can take a shower. Mrs. Hudson will have made the tea by the time you're finished, I presume."

"Ahh, Mrs. Hudson. She makes a fantastic cup, but she's not our housekeeper."

"She says that, but she enjoys it." Sherlock dropped his eyes to his hands. He looked sad for a split second, but he bounced his eyes back up to John."Well, I'll see you downstairs?"

"Sure." John followed the man's profile as he raised himself from the bed, crossed the bedroom, and left. John took a moment to contemplate the new proximity and the strange second-guessing he read on Sherlock's face before he leapt from the covers, showered, and dressed. About ten minutes later, and he was dabbing on his usual cologne. He caught himself humming excitedly in the mirror before hustling downstairs.

Sherlock, of course, was tapping away at his laptop. John moved closer and peered over his shoulder. "Updating 'The Science of Deduction?'"

"Yes. Just adding to my list of tobacco ash."

John felt his face tug into a proud smile. He resisted the urge to pat Sherlock on the back or tousle his hair. Instead, he retreated to the kitchen where he made himself breakfast. In the silence that followed, John felt at peace. Sherlock was typing, his bread was toasting, and he felt comfortable. He liked moving around Sherlock, teasing him, playing his game, but he also liked living domestically beside him, quietly. By the time he'd sat himself next to Sherlock at the breakfast table, the man was finishing his tea. Sherlock then did something rather strange.

The army doctor had noted that Sherlock hadn't made himself anything to eat, which was usual for him, but now he reached over and took John's toast with a large hand and quick fingers, raised it to his mouth, indulged in a bite, and dropped it back on John's plate innocently. John was about to retort, make some sort of joke about how seldom Sherlock ate, but he just pursed his lips and shook his head. He took a bite of the toast, beside Sherlock's. He tried not to think of how Sherlock's mouth had been on it and he'd have to eat that part eventually.

* * *

Sherlock and John sat comfortably until John had finished half of his tea and his toast. Sherlock asked if he was ready, and with a reluctant response, closed his laptop, stood from the table, and retrieved his beloved coat. With a sweep of his arms, the coat slid onto them and rested snug on his shoulders. He clicked his tongue at John, who followed suit, and they galloped down the stairs and onto the chilled London street.

"What is there to conclude?" John asked as he and Sherlock stood on the curb, waiting for a cab.

"I assume it has to do with how the boy is doing as well as the parents coming to thank Lestrade and his team, teary-eyed."

"Hm. This was an interesting case. You solved it quickly, which wasn't a surprise. By this point in time, I don't question how you know something anymore, but it still intrigues me with certain cases."

"Such as?"

"This one. What with the uncle secretly loving his sister-in-law and all."

Sherlock snorted, his sarcastic smile reflective in the sleek furnishing of the cab as he opened the door. "Like I told you, this wasn't love, this was obsession."

"Right, John clambered in behind Sherlock. 

"And anyway, that wasn't what intrigued me about the case. It was the simplicity of it. Scotland Yard, please."

"That seems like it shouldn't make sense, but it does because you're Sherlock."

"Oh? And what does that mean?"

"Well, you know. Your life is based off chasing criminals all over town and hunting them down with nothing but a chocolate wrapper to go off of."

"Our lives."

"Hm?"

"It's both of our lives, now. Cases."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose. So it makes sense that this case was interesting to you, it must have been like a warm-up. Maybe the next one we get will have you deciphering codes and persuading zoologists not to poison their monkeys."

"Maybe so." Sherlock ended the conversation as he often did, John picking up on his cue without a word of disagreement. The cab ride was similar to the one a few days previous, but now it was John who pressed his leg closer to Sherlock's. It didn't go unnoticed, but only received the man returned pressure. There was something comforting in that, and Sherlock didn't want to ruin it by trying to figure out what.

When they arrived at Scotland Yard, Lestrade and Donovan were waiting on the sidewalk for them. Sherlock had texted Lestrade in the cab with a swipe of his thumb. He made it particularly dramatic, to which John just rolled his eyes. Sherlock and John then exited the cab and waved the cabbie off. With the grey sky and official building as their view, the three men and the woman turned toward their offices and walked in line. Sherlock didn't particularly appreciate the width of the row, so he pulled back with John.

* * *

On the way to the office, the detectives recapped the case. John found himself swaying to the hum of Sherlock's low voice, even as it spoke of dull reenactments. Once inside Lestrade's office, John snapped himself back into reality and found Sherlock staring at him quizzically. He shot him a warning glance as Sally spoke.

"So we have the parents here, just outside. They want to thank us properly. Shall I call them in?"

"Don't know why not." John said, more active in participating than he had been a two days before. It was his life now, too. Might as well speak up. When the woman and man entered, John immediately recognized the same characteristics that the teenage girl had had. The same thin frame, the pale skin, the dark hair. Sherlock really was spot on, and he hadn't seen the mother when he'd solved it. John nudged him playfully as a sign of a job well done. Sherlock nudged back.

Donovan furrowed her brow in confusion and looked at Lestrade, who was smiling as if he'd just won a bet. 

The parents then went on about how grateful they were that the boy was back and safe, and how much closer he and his girlfriend were now. The father looked dreadful as he comforted his wife who, as Sherlock had predicted, wept. When they'd stopped their rambling and shaken everyone's hands, only then did John and Sherlock resume speaking to one another.

"You were right, they were teary-eyed."

"I am always right, John Watson."

"True, true. Bit of a prick, but right nonetheless." John beamed at Sherlock. Sherlock beamed back. Donovan watched the sparks fly with a incredulous eye. Lestrade just chuckled.

"Something to say, Gavin?" Sherlock said, turning his intelligent gaze toward the detective inspector. 

"It's just… You two are getting along so well. It's almost as if you weren't two danger-crazed crime fighters."

"Why wouldn't we get on? We're flatmates, aren't we?" _Flatmates who happen to be secretly dating,_ John added to himself.

"It's just… different. Good different." Lestrade looked between the men, who were conversing rather closely together in the doorway.

"It's weird if you ask me. I've never seen the freak smile so much." Donovan leaned back in her chair, her brilliant white smile hidden now by a scowl.

"And I bet you've never seen such a dry spell as the one you're stuck in now. Anderson still ill?" Sherlock snapped. John snickered like a schoolboy. Sally refrained from responding. "And Geoff, how's my brother treating you? Still swearing on his life that he's not lonely?"

"Uh…" John could see a faint blush creep across the silver-haired man's cheeks as his embarrassment stole his voice. At Lestrade's inability to respond, Sherlock smirked in his usual sly way and turned back to his flatmate.

"John, remember to always bring your weapons if you're to head into battle."

"Noted."

John slipped his hands into his pockets. Sherlock seemed to deduce that he and John were no longer needed, so he paid Donovan and Lestrade their respects with a final quip and disappeared out of the office, leaving John to say goodbye in a civil manner.

"He's just…" He began. Lestrade cut him off.

"Really, really excited about something. He always has the best comebacks when he's pleased about something. You sure there's nothing else happening there?"

"Opposites do attract, I suppose," Sally piped in. She was pretty all the time, but now her sly smile made her look curiously aware, the apples of her cheeks were round and crinkling her eyes.

"What if there was something else? How much would you owe him, Donovan?"

"Twenty quid and a beer. Please tell me there's not. I mean, I'd joked in the past, but don't tell me you two actually - "

John interrupted her with a wave of his hand. "You'll have to talk to him about it. I'll just leave it at that." John turned on his heel and nearly soared out the door before either of them could respond.

Greg huffed a chuckle, "But he won't tell me anything straight, he'll just give me some riddle." 

Sally shook her head, her tight brunette curls bouncing, "Of course not, there's nothing straight about those two."

Lestrade nudged her playfully, but he knew it was true. Donovan smirked, proud of herself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's already so eager to talk about them as if they're a couple... KILL ME.
> 
> Also, Donovan's joke is 10/10


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex, although seemingly primal, never struck a chord with Sherlock as a teenager.

Sherlock felt a warm weight on top of him, and at first - he panicked. He wasn't used to being touched, but as his eyes focused, the weight blurred and refined into skin, goosepimpled with excitement. Before he had a chance to react, damp, soft lips came in contact with the tight muscle of his neck. Sherlock's pulse increased and he tried to pull his neck away to see who it was. Before he could, however, two calloused hands ran down his shoulders - their touch strangely calming. The scent of lavender permeated through the air, and upon noticing it, Sherlock had stopped questioning where he was and decided to look around. He peered over the top of the person, their shoulders contracting in a rhythmic movement. A dense forest was his surrounding, tall pines sprouting from an invisible ground. A soft, lilac mist was coming from between their trunks. Sherlock then turned his attention to the warm body atop him, who was now slipping his fingers between Sherlock's. The movement that the body created was a push and pull, his chest brushing Sherlock's. His lips returned to mouthing Sherlock's ear, and although the sensation was strange and new, the detective found himself craning his body up, seeking that same weight and protection the body seemed to provide. After a moment of a coiling pleasure deepening in his gut, the lips at his ear moaned Sherlock's name. With a start, the man realized that the solid, comforting body belonged to John Watson. At this realization, Sherlock felt himself loosen, even to the extent of canting his hips up and meeting a hot pleasure. The technicality of the act was not known, Sherlock only reveled in the sincerity of the embrace, as well as the pleasure that seemed similar to that of masturbation. John deepened his gyration and raised himself from Sherlock, his form now looking down at him through the violet fog. John's strong, solid chest was soon met by Sherlock's hands, complete with silver dog tags and a light dusting of hair. His shoulders were round and pulled from a taut skin over his prominent collarbone. The man's thick arms rested at Sherlock's hips, one hand eventually moving around to push Sherlock's thigh up. He settled between them and leaned forward. As he did so, Sherlock darted his eyes down to the sturdy hipbones connecting them to John's torso. Soon, John's face was close to the detective's, his worn eyes misty and soulful. Sherlock was fazed by the beauty of the heated look John was giving him, but there was adoration and contentment there as well. Sherlock raised himself slightly on his elbows and closed the small empty space between his mouth and John's. He met John's lips. They were plush and damp, and Sherlock found himself drawing John's lips between his and moving them together as if he couldn't get enough of his taste. John darted his tongue in and out of Sherlock's mouth as he rolled his body forward and back. The lavender smell mixed with John's cologne and Sherlock felt his stomach drop as heat pooled there. He nipped and sucked and touched every part that he could of John with his mouth, it was sloppy and heady and wanton but he needed to claim every bit, even from his position underneath. The fog thickened until it caught in Sherlock's throat, and with one trail of his fingernails down John's back, he bucked upwards and awoke with a start.

He was encased in a hot wrap of blankets, although he'd kicked the comforter off and the sheet had entangled itself around him. He was lying on his back, knees up and spread as they'd been in the dream. He had an erection, and upon noting it, Sherlock flopped back into his pillows and covered his face. He took a moment to catch his breath, his skin damp with sweat. He raked trembling fingers through his curls and breathed. He sat up carefully and sat back up against his headboard. The cold of the wood felt nice against his bare back, and after taking his pulse, he deduced that if he didn't sleep naked, he would have been burning up even more. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed. He thought to himself. _By far the most graphic sex dream I've had. And it was about John. Well, that makes sense but… What would he think if he knew about that? He'd say, "I didn't think you even thought about having sex, I thought you just made fun of Donovan and that was that." …Or does not know? Probably doesn't know about my asexuality. Can I even call it that anymore? I don't think so... I've never had a dream as… passionate… as this. Of course, nothing even_ happened _in the dream._

The confused man sunk his head back against the board with a thud. He wondered if it even counted as a sex dream if he couldn't even deduce how they'd had sex. _How do you even…? I know what it feels like, to come. That's simple._ Sherlock didn't want to ask himself how to have sex with a man because part of him was embarrassed and the other part just couldn't comprehend it. He wondered how someone else could get him off, how they would know what to do, how they wouldn't be disgusted by his privates, how he would time his orgasm with his. He made fun of heterosexual sex because he was never drawn to it, but he turned into a nervous, uneducated teen when it came to what he really wanted.

He breathed out again, biting hard into his bottom lip. He replayed the dream and added facts to it. He liked the weight of John, he liked the smell, he liked the coiling pleasure in his stomach, he liked the movement, he liked the taste, he liked seeing how protective John looked… He wondered if he _were_ to choose that path with John, would he be accepting? Would he take his time? Would he understand?

Sherlock keeled forward and into a ball. He was confused and scared and hot and he realized with sinking panic that there was a very good chance of it actually happening with John. Things were changing, and he knew someone as sexually driven as John couldn't be satisfied by playing Cluedo and back-of-the-cab flirting forever. _Not to mention the ridiculous advantage he has as a well-endowed man._ Not that Sherlock was paltry, mind you. At least, he thought he wasn't.

Sex, although seemingly primal, had never struck a chord with Sherlock as a teenager. He didn't lust over people on the street and he certainly never kissed people he'd just met. He felt a spark seeing men in the military, which gave him fuel for the very seldom sexual needs that built up - but he just never saw the _appeal._ Sex seemed tedious and dirty and ridiculous. The sounds, the over-the-top dirty talk, the public bathroom sex… It never drew him in.

However, both men were right: things were changing. Sherlock found himself wondering if the protection and adoration he saw in John's eyes, as well as the warmth of his body and grasp of his hands, was what did it for him. Not the "sex sells" industry, not the headboard-breaking, meat-patties-slapping-together-sounding sex with a stranger… Something else. John seemed to be the only exception in this, as he deduced before, and he wondered if he'd ever be alright exploring the more hardcore side of sex. Whatever that meant.

Sherlock felt very vulnerable about this, even as a man who knew everything from the dust under a couch to the codes of a television program. Sex was his weakest point. As was John. He felt pressured and small and unintelligent in the area, even if he attempted to watch porn. As soon as the two men starting kissing deeply, he felt uncomfortable and turned it off. 

He'd even thought of conducting experiments on himself, to see what really got him off. But every time he started, he just felt pointless. The rumors and general knowledge that sex entailed seemed unrealistic, and even then he wasn't sure _exactly_ how sex with men worked. It was all complicated and dumb, and in all honesty, he tried to block most of that out. 

The one experience he had with sex wasn't particularly wanted, and since then he'd tried to delete everything else in his life related to it; save for his military kink, masturbation, and innuendoes or jokes. 

 _What a mess I am… John will probably get angry and impatient with me if we were to try. No, no, he cares for me. Somehow. Would he try?_ Sherlock tried desperately hard not to sink further into his insecurities. He told himself and John that he would try harder, and luckily he hadn't relapsed since he met John. He didn't want to think about the multiple addictions he had before John came into his life. There was too much to look forward to now. 

Sherlock finally rose from the bed and stretched his back. His pale, chiseled body cracked and twisted in the morning light, and although his "morning wood" had nearly subsided, the dream didn't bring him release. He felt that his brain was mostly clear post-orgasm, so he decided to satisfy that need in the shower. 

Upon rubbing his tailbone, he heard rustling about in the kitchen, so Sherlock pulled a robe from his closet and wrapped it around his naked torso, and left his bedroom. 

John was milling about the kitchen, tidying up.

"Morning," he said, his greeting smile more genuine and revealing with each day. Sherlock swallowed his pride and remembered the dream. John's eyes were similar now to those that the'd had in the dream. They weren't dangerous or lust-filled, they were kind and promising. It caught him slightly off guard.

"Hm… I'm going to… Shower… Before breakfast, I think…"

"Alright?"

"You going in to work today?" Sherlock tried to lean nonchalantly on the doorframe, but he had to cross his legs to cover himself.

"Don't know. Maybe, if I feel like it." John didn't seem to notice.

"Hm. Alright. Well. I'll be… in the shower."

John gave him a puzzled look but Sherlock only ducked back towards the shower in the hallway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed to pay tribute to one of my best friends, babu, and #1 supporter by putting some of her color/scenery choices in as Sherlock's dream.
> 
> Love you, ya dingus. I'm so excited for the 16th :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hadn't touched himself in quite a while, in fact, he'd almost forgotten what it felt like.

The water streamed over his head, off his shoulders, in rivets along his torso, and twined down his legs. Sherlock had scrubbed some shampoo into his curls, washing away the sweat and oil, but his mind was replaying the dream. He rinsed the suds out and let the soapy bubbles wash the back of his neck. He turned the water a tad hotter and reached for the conditioner. He poured his usual generous amount into the palm of his hand and massaged his dark hair. As he let that set, he stretched his arms in the small shower. Sherlock's eyes wandered on the blue curtain and the steam curling up to the ceiling before the heat and remnant of sleep closed them. He placed his palms flat on the tile above the knob and tried to remember exactly the feeling the dream gave him.

John's warm body on top of him… Sherlock let the water slide down his back, enveloping him in that same comforting heat. His breath hitched when he recalled the next bit.

Soft, parted lips… Sherlock rolled his neck as if he wanted to give the phantom John more access. His thighs tightened and he felt himself twitch.

The cooing of his name in his ear… At this, Sherlock was now hardening rather quickly, the image of the hazy lilac dream flooding back to him. He opened his eyes and looked down at himself. His cock, which was pale and lengthy, like him, was working itself up, hot blood coursing through it. He'd never been particularly ashamed of his endowment, since he was average for his height. He wondered what John would think of it. At that thought, his thighs gave a small shudder. Still looking down at himself, Sherlock gave in to the sight and helped himself out. 

He hadn't touched himself in quite a while, in fact, he'd almost forgotten what it felt like. That must have been why his didn't reach orgasm in his dream, he figured. His right hand encircled the tip of his cock. He pictured John pushing him down into the soft forest ground, looking at him with respect as well as those half-lidded, sultry eyes that he sometimes gave him. Sherlock imagined John pushing his knee up and into his crotch, at which he grabbed himself around the width and pulled up. He hit the smooth tile of the shower wall with his free hand, resting his weight on his forearm as he worked on himself.

The pleasure he remembered came back to him, and the haze of the steamy shower seemed to fog over more with the addition of his touch. John's body was rippling, moving itself strongly in a wave-like manner: pushing, pulling, pulsing, contracting, expanding. Sherlock tried to catch the last of the smell of John's cologne as it lingered in his memory, and just as it slipped away, he realized he wasn't thinking of just the dream anymore.

Anything John had done in the past year that surprised Sherlock now came back to him. Every drag of his eyes down Sherlock's torso, every lick of his lips, every cross of his legs, every joke, every midnight snack adventure with no shirt on - it was all undeniably John. None of them were particularly horny, but they were all ringing of army doctor. Sherlock even found himself thinking of the honor John must have to have seen such atrocities and still hold strong to this very day. He thought of the loyalty John kept for him and Mrs. Hudson, and how respectful he was to his girlfriends. This route in his mind palace led him to thinking of John having sex with women, which he found himself getting angry at.

He shook the thought away and closed his eyes tighter, remembering the intense snogging his dream had provided. The sliding of his tongue across John's, biting his jaw, raking his fingers down his neck, sucking on his collarbone. He thought of exploring John's body, finding every sensitive spot. He thought of John's scar and how sexy it looked. He remembered the way John's hand seemed to fit perfectly into his from his position above him, and he thought of how he and John pressed their knees together in the back of the cab. He thought of the times he'd leaned over John as he was blogging. He thought of how John looked when he slept and how much toast he ate in the morning. He thought of the way John walked like he was chafing and how his girlfriends never would be able to see how he laughed in the moonlight, eating takeout. He thought of the most recent events, how John was so passionate about telling him that he was attracted to him. Sherlock smiled to himself as he recounted the way he and John spoke between the door, confessing more than they ever had. His grip tightened once more with the realization that he and John were actually happening, John was there for him just as he was there for John. They were a pair. They were together. They were going to try. Sherlock found more comfort in that thought than any case he'd solved.

It all fell into place; it was easy. Sherlock let his mind drift from one thing to the next, never releasing himself. He increased in ferocity and gripped himself tighter when he thought of John in his military uniform, doing pull-ups on a steel bar. He thought of John army-crawling through a mud puddle, his torso dripping, his blond hair matted. Sherlock pictured John kissing down his chest and slipping lower. He thought of John praising him, cooing into his ear how well he performed for him. John did praise him, often, and Sherlock found that in any situation, it made him heat. He thought of John biting his thighs and tracing his fingers over the muscles under his torso. He slapped a hand against the wet tile of the shower as he thought of John furiously snogging him while rolling around in the sheets. He thought of John looking up with big, navy eyes as he sucked him off. He thought of sneaky handjobs under the table at a restaurant. 

Sherlock thought of everything he could, and even though there was a dearth of knowledge when it came to actual intercourse, he had enough imagination to cause a sort of whorish moan to escape his plump lips as he pictured John opening the door of the bathroom now… Coming into the shower… Approaching him from behind… Trailing his tongue down his shoulder blade… Cupping his arse…

With one final squeeze, a tight pump and a flash of John's contracting abdomen muscles as he rotated his body on top of Sherlock, pressing them together, Sherlock slammed a fist into the tile and came. A final moan dribbled from his mouth as the evidence of his orgasm swirled down the drain. 

He wasn't ashamed this time. When he'd masturbated before, he felt like he was breaking the rules of something. He felt like he wasn't allowed to call himself an aromantic asexual if he were thinking of military men surrounding him and taking turns sliding their slender fingers over his body. This time, he knew exactly how and why this orgasm shackled through him the the hardest. 

He rolled his neck and stretched his back, clearing the remaining suds from his curls with a tousle. He screwed the water off and sighed with relief - he saw clearly now.

John was the exception to everything. John was his key. John was his John.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that deleted scene from Star Trek: Into Darkness where Khan was in the shower?


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He felt strange at listening, but what he heard next made his sensitive lap extremely tight and flushed.

Watson popped a brow as Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom. Sherlock had definitely been acting strange that morning, but John was just pleased that the previous day hadn't been a dream. Things were just beginning, so he allowed Sherlock a day of mystery. 

John settled into his chair with the newspaper. He placidly read as he heard the water turn on. He let his mind roam in and out of what was on the page and what was in his head. What he was left with was a mix of weather updates and Sherlock's naked body, dripping wet, swirls of steam coiling off his skin. John knew that Sherlock always took short showers, so he settled into the fantasy and the news for the next five minutes.

However, the water didn't turn off after five minutes. It didn't turn off after six, or seven. Sherlock was punctual, and since he was already running late having woken up after John, he would have wanted to make up for the minutes he lost with an even shorter shower.

But this wasn't the case. John was curious now. He let his fantasies carry themselves into the zone of ridiculous, impossible ideas. He perked his ears towards the bathroom and held his breath. What he heard next was a slapping against a tile, as if Sherlock had just hit the wall with a damp palm.

John knew that action only too well.

 _For God's sakes - he's wanking!_ John chuckled to himself, the thought of Sherlock wanking unusual and strange at first. But this humor was short lived, once he remembered their current situation. How Sherlock was willing to try for John, in whatever way he meant that. What would make Sherlock want to rub one out in the bathroom? Surely nothing "normal" would turn him on. John set the paper down in his somewhat sensitive lap. He tried to deduce the situation, using personal experience as evidence.

Usually, when he directly showered in the morning after waking up late, he'd just had a particularly steamy dream and needed to blow some of it off in the shower via a wank. By this principle, Sherlock's strangeness from the morning was due to his embarrassing dream. _What would Sherlock dream about? I didn't even think he was turned on by anything… Apparently I was wrong._

His curiosity how now gotten the best of him and he stood from his chair and moved closer to the shower. He didn't lean his ear on it, necessarily, but he did perk his ears in that direction. He heard another slap, and then, mixed in with the rush of the shower, he heard the familiar sound of a hand on cock. He felt strange at listening, but what he heard next made his sensitive lap extremely tight and flushed. Sherlock had moaned. 

With that, John was reacting - and quickly. Images of Sherlock touching himself, rivulets of warm water streaming down his pumping arm and clenching thighs, were too much for John just to picture, and he contemplated running up the stairs to the privacy of his room or satiating himself right there, outside the bathroom door. He felt he was invading Sherlock's privacy, but the sound of another moan pushed him to decide, and he slipped his hand down his pants, leaning up against the wall beside the bathroom.

For John, masturbating was easy. It felt different than sex with women and even more different from sex with men (that which he experimented with in the war with one of his Majors). He had perfected the action as a teenager, and he did it often enough that he could time exactly when he'd come. This one felt different than a lazy home-alone wank. This was a Suzy-just-got-boobs-and-is-wearing-a-tight-blouse-Mrs.-Smith-may-I-be-excused-to-the-bathroom wank. He felt dirty and rude and heady, but if he and Sherlock were going to continue getting closer to each other, their walls needed to break. John slumped against the wall, his face flushed, hand deep in his pants and grabbing himself. His lids were heavy with lust and he slid them closed, letting the fantasy take over him.

A dream version of Sherlock opened the bathroom door, dripping and naked, cock glistening and hard, tip reddened with lust. He made his way to John slowly, growling like an animal. His face was dark and seductive, and his low, rumbling voice said, "John, you look delicious. My fantasies can only take me so far; you must be better as the real thing." 

John crinkled his nose, sure that Sherlock would never something so porny, but he returned to the fantasy excitedly, still aware of the continuing shower.

Sherlock pushed his dripping body close to John's and began kissing and biting his neck, his large hands sliding from John's shoulders and chest into his pants. The heat in Sherlock's eyes bore into John, his tight face elongated in a moan. John bucked his hips forward and into Sherlock's hand. He shifted against the weight as his thighs forced themselves apart. He craned his neck up and met the imaginary Sherlock's mouth. 

The lips that seemed so untouchable, so delectably unreachable were now parting for John. He imagined himself moving his mouth against them, flicking his tongue against Sherlock's. Sherlock opened his mouth wide and pushed himself against John. John thought that every bit of his skin would be hot and untouched, and he felt a pang of pleasure at the idea that he might be the first. Sherlock pushed his tongue deep inside John's mouth, the kind of searing kiss that John wasn't particularly fond of. This was an exception, since the smell of Sherlock and the feel of his writhing, damp body against John, along with the kiss, pushed John to his limits, and he knew he was close. The fantasy Sherlock tightened his grip around John and changed his angle, his other hand sliding up the wall and into John's hair. Growling John's name to his ear, Sherlock sunk his teeth into John's neck.

He shoved his free hand over his mouth to stop from crying out, and although he'd practiced finishing silently due to his teenage years, he found this session to be intense, and he was involved with every twitch of his body. He bucked himself up, into his hand, and came with all over himself. Sherlock had vanished. It took him a moment to regain his sense of reality, as well as the feeling in right arm. With a shuddering breath, he slid himself up the wall, retracted his hand, and washed up in the kitchen.

John splashed his face with water in hopes of calming his cheeks, and just as he was drying himself off with a flannel, the shower turned off. He wiped the last remains of his endeavor with a paper towel and threw it away, shaking at the thought that Sherlock had heard him. He retreated to his chair and resumed reading the paper. When the fumbling about in the bathroom died down and the door creaked open, John focused as hard as he could on the paper in his lap.

Sherlock, now wearing a clean shirt, dry pants, and his dress robe, walked placidly to the couch and laid himself down, stretching out as he often did. 

John didn't know what to say, and he felt rather tense and sinful, so he pretended to read. 

Both men were satisfied and clear-headed now, but there was still a desperately unspoken tension between them.

* * *

Sherlock felt that John knew what he'd just indulged in, since he was the master of masturbating himself. On multiple occasions, Sherlock deduced when John was, either in the bathroom or in his bedroom. This time he wondered if the tables were turned. He cleared his throat. "So, are you going into work today?" _As much as I would miss you, I feel like you know what I've done and I think I need a moment to think alone._

"Yes, I think so."

"Hm." 

"What are you planning on doing? Lestrade hasn't messaged you about a case? Any emails?" John seemed eager to fill the room with words, and Sherlock liked the sound of his voice. He took a few seconds before responding, locking his gaze on the wall pattern.

"I haven't checked my email, and I'm sure Greg will give us a few days off. At least I hope so."

John smiled, and Sherlock caught it from his peripheral. "You called him Greg that time."

"Did I? Hm."

"Yeah…"

* * *

 _Please don't deduce that I just wanked to the thought of you wanking a few feet away. Actually, if you do, let me know in some way that it's okay._ John crossed his legs and furrowed his brows. Sherlock was silent. John spoke instead, "I'm probably going to leave soon. Should I buy anything at the grocery store?"

"Yes, actually. It's Anderson's birthday soon and Lestrade wants us to bake him a cake."

John laughed, "Right. I believe that."

"I didn't believe him either. Seems that Anderson's still sick and the last time it was someone's birthday, Donovan and Lestrade made them a cake. He said it was our turn. As much as I don't want to spend time on something for that idiot, Greg wouldn't forgive me if I didn't."

"You and Greg are close, eh? I mean, not that… You know what I mean."

Sherlock turned his head toward him and smirked. "He helped me out when I was in bad shape, before I met you. Ever since then he's been looking out for me, even if I swear I don't need any more friends."

"Yes, because Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade make two - such an overwhelming number."

"Three. Three's enough."

John let Sherlock's words soak in. Somehow, even though he knew they weren't just friends anymore, he still liked to hear it. He always found himself second guessing his importance to Sherlock. He needed constant reminder, since Sherlock seemed to detest friendship. Little did he know that he was the exception to everything.

"And Mycroft?"

"He's not my friend, he's my brother. He's competition and logic. It makes me wonder why Greg is so interested in him."

"So that's what that was about! Ahhh…"

"Hm?"

John found his usual conversation levels returning, the weight of the wank-session slipping away with every word. "Yesterday, you mentioned Mycroft and Greg almost …blushed."

"Of course he would, they're an item. So I've heard."

"Oh. Wow." John took a moment to contemplate Mycroft's new relationship status. He was an unsociable man and Lestrade was the opposite. _Way to go, Mycroft. Lestrade's not bad looking._ John spoke sincerely, "Maybe it's for the best that the Holmes brothers are breaking out of their shells." 

Sherlock spoke quickly, changing the subject. "Anderson wants yellow cake with white frosting and strawberries, Greg said. Take my card in case the self-checkout doesn't work again."

John stood, "Alright." He was about to fetch it from Sherlock's coat, but he stopped himself. "Do you know how to bake?"

Sherlock sat up from the couch and rolled his neck. John's eyes darted to the pale strip of skin there. "No."

The army doctor nodded curtly before heading towards the stairs. Without turning around, he heard a meek but respectable voice from behind him

"…Teach me?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY NOT SORRY


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was nice, just being there with him, in the kitchen, after dark.

Luckily, the day at work John endured took his mind off the events of the morning. He saw a few patients, flirted with the secretary a bit, saw a few more patients, ate a sandwich, saw more patients, and closed up around eight. He went to the store and picked up what Sherlock had asked for, taking precaution not to get the "just add water" cake mix. He was pleased that Sherlock wanted him to take the reigns over something he knew nothing of, and John was sure that he'd appreciate it more if John took his time and taught him properly. Carrying heavy bags in his arms, he left the store and took a cab home. It was quiet in the back, and John found himself missing the gentle pressure of Sherlock's knee on his.

He struggled to open the door with the bags in his arms, but he succeeded and dropped them gently to his feet to pay his cabbie. He ended up watching him leave for longer than he'd expected. John sighed and took a moment to admire his city.

The blanket of blue that coated the street had holes poked into it by lit windows. The buildings looked like paintings, dripping with morose tones hidden in dark railings and closed doors. The street lamps had been lit and gave the street a yellow glow in pools between a stretch of grey pavement. John turned, the bags still at his feet. His own building was more alive than those across the road. Mrs. Hudson's shop smiled at him with its large sign and friendly font. The door to 221B was dark, its knocker and address shimmering silver in the moonlight. He tilted his head up and grinned as he felt a light sprinkle of mist come down and touch his skin. The light of the window to his flat was lit, a shadow moving slowly across it. John was lucky. He had a wonderful home and a beautiful man to come home to. He had adventures for thrill and calm days for when he sought just that. To think he'd been contemplating leaving this life after he returned from the war…

John shook the thought away, pleased beyond belief to be graced with such a ridiculous life. He wondered if Sherlock would appreciate him saying that, that the highlight of every day was knowing that he'd be there when he walked up those stairs. He laughed to himself, remembering who Sherlock was. A downside to being his flatmate, he supposed.

The doctor scooped up the bags and made his way to the door, where he fumbled to open it. He popped it with his hip and shut it with his foot. He nodded in the direction of Mrs. Hudson's home out of courtesy and made his way up the stairs. About halfway up, he pretended that the heavier paper bag, that which carried the flour, was a sleepy-eyed child and he was taking him home after a day at a football game. When he appeared in the doorway, the thought disappeared. Sherlock was moving gracefully toward the window that John had just been watching, and he was about to pick up his violin.

"I'm home," he said. Sherlock stopped, mid-motion. John swore he saw his shoulders sag with relief. He made his way into the kitchen and set the bags down on the previously cleared table. "Mrs. Hudson clear the table for us?"

Sherlock spoke without turning around. "No, I did."

"Oh." John began unpacking the bags. He set the flour, sugar, eggs, milk, vanilla, baking powder, butter, pre-made frosting, and strawberries on the table in the center of the kitchen. He held up the red fruit. "These were pricey. It's not strawberry season."

"It's London, not California."

John hummed to himself. "Right. Anyway… Are you going to wear that to bake?"

"My dressing gown?"

"Yes. You'll get it dirty."

"No, I won't."

"Yes, you will. Go and change, I'll set up."

"Aren't you going to relax first? You've only just gotten home. And you had a very full day, by looks of it."

John kneeled, his knees creaking. He retrieved the mixing bowls from under the counter. Mrs. Hudson had bought them, along with a few other bowls and mixing spoons, for their housewarming gifts. John was grateful on the small occasion that he decided to make an omelet for himself. Sherlock always seemed shocked by his skill. "Don't deduce me when you know I'm trying my best. Now, go and change."

Sherlock was as stubborn as a toddler. "Fine."

John rummaged through the kitchen and retrieved the measuring cups and tablespoons. He preheated the oven and took an apron from the hook beside the doorframe. He shed his coat and pushed the sleeves of his pullover up. He fingered his hair into place, yanked up his pants, and set about washing his hands. A few minutes later, and Sherlock's presence made the atmosphere of the kitchen tighten.

"Good. Are you ready to bake?" John rolled his neck painfully.

"I suppose. Shame it's for Anderson, of all people." Sherlock spoke from behind him, his body strangely distant. 

"Just think of it as a learning opportunity, Sherlock…" John had turned to face the man now, his busy hands coming to a stop and clenching into fists at the sight. Sherlock was wearing one of his shirts. It was maroon and definitely too small for him. After soaking in the sight of Sherlock in his clothes, the hem rising just above the tie of his pajama bottoms, John tried to speak. "That's my shirt."

"Yes, well, you said change."

"My shirt."

"Hm. Now are we going to start?"

"Did you steal that from my room?"

"No."

John ignored the connotations of that statement and extended an arm to the stiff man, "Fine. Come here. We're going to bake a cake."

Sherlock came forth. 

* * *

John was alluring when he cooked, which was why Sherlock always found himself spending his mornings watching him on the days he made something special. He had so much accuracy, so much precision when he did. Most likely leftover from his surgical talent. The doctor furrowed his brows now and gave a measuring cup to Sherlock.

"Two and a half cups of flour, please." Sherlock took the cup and moved past John to the table in the center of the kitchen. John turned and leaned on the counter, watching. 

"You don't have a recipe?"

"It's a simple cake, not a soufflé. Now, since you're a chemist, I know you know how to measure things." Sherlock was impressed at John's ability to remember the measurements without a recipe, but he didn't know that John had been training himself to remember simple things such as rules and lists in order to have more an organized way of thinking, like himself. 

Sherlock didn't respond. He opened the flour carefully, pulling the corners far from each other. With a puff of white, Sherlock dipped the cup in and scooped, careful not to spill any. When he retracted it, it was only half-full.

The detective could feel John's eyes on the back of his neck. "You can pour some in now. Just don't spill any."

"I'm not a child, John."

"No, but you did ask me to teach you and whined when I told you to change out of your silk dressing gown, so I wouldn't call you the Queen of England, either."

Sherlock turned and smiled sarcastically. He set the cup down and lifted the heavy sack of flour, pouring the powder until it reached the two-cup mark. He brought forth the cup and gave it to John, who dumped it into one of the two bowls that he had prepared on the counter. "Now the other half."

"This is going too slowly, you do the rest while I do this." Sherlock whined.

"You need to learn how to cook for yourself. Take-out will get boring eventually."

"Speaking of which, Chinese or Thai tonight?"

"Just pour the sodding flour, Sherlock." John laughed Sherlock's name and it was a wonderful sound.

Sherlock did as he was told, filling the cup a quarter of the way full. He flicked his wrist dramatically and bowed as he handed the ingredient to his friend.

"Chinese. Good. Now sugar. I'll do this one." John spun around and beckoned Sherlock over with two fingers like the captain he was at heart. He dumped the remaining flour into the bowl with one hand and reached for the sugar with the other. Sherlock was momentarily phased by the stretch of his arm and its flex as it carried the weighted sack back towards the counter. "One and one-forths cup of this." He opened the sugar and poured it easily, the grains spilling smoothly into the cup. 

"I can see why Mycroft is chubby now. Rather a lot of sugar, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, moving himself closer to John out of habit.

"Mycroft's chubby for other reasons." John smirked and looked at Sherlock sideways, his dark eyes flicking over to Sherlock, his smile playful. "Alright, now three teaspoons baking powder. Can you manage that?"

"Yes, mummy." Sherlock teased. This time, he took the silver ring of spoons and the box of baking powder from the table himself, popping it open with a thumb and scooping the bitter-smelling powder with the teaspoon. 

"Smooth the pile out with the ledge there. Good, two more." John let himself watch as Sherlock reached over him and dumped the powder into the bowl.

* * *

He looked stern. He concentrated hard on getting every bit of powder into the bowl. John liked his effort. He snapped himself back into reality, pulling his gaze from Sherlock's cheekbones and full lips. 

"Alright, next dry ingredient: one-forth teaspoon salt. Here," he took the teaspoon from Sherlock, fingers brushing over his soft knuckles. John reached for the salt shaker that lay behind the rice. He unscrewed the cap and quickly measured a bit into the spoon. He added it to the mix. "Okay, good pace. Now we move onto wet ingredients."

"Do you always have to separate them into separate bowls?" Sherlock asked. John grinned at the genuine question.

"No, but I like to, to make things easier to mix and I feel like the cake just comes out tastier. Doesn't really matter. Now, fetch the butter stick, sous-chef." The army doctor tapped his fingers on the counter expectantly, excited to order Sherlock around.

Sherlock retrieved the butter and loomed over John, close. Sherlock fumbled for a moment in getting the rectangle from the box, and John tried not to chuckle. He failed. Upon collecting himself, John took a butter knife from beside the wet ingredient bowl and moved left toward it. Sherlock came closer. John noted that and made a joke internally. _"What you do with Sherlock when you're alone is your business, John." "Don't worry, Harry, we just bake cakes." "Is that an innuendo?"_ John held the butter stick in his left hand and switched the knife to his right. He glanced at Sherlock, who nodded. He pointed to the three-forths cup mark on the butter and cut through the wax paper. The butter was still partly solid, but the warmth of the kitchen had softened it enough. Hopefully it'd soften more by the time he had to mix it.

"The recipe calls for soft butter, but I'm lazy, so we're just going to have to hope it softens enough to mix." John unwrapped the cut piece and let it fall into the empty bowl. 

Sherlock said, "Why didn't you put it closer to the oven, then?"

"What are you, a detective?"

"Actually…" Sherlock's cheeks folded and crinkled in the smile meant for John.

John's own cheeks almost hurt from grinning. He refused to look at Sherlock in fear that he'd blush like a woman. "How mysterious. Do you solve crimes with your assistant?"

Sherlock nudged John's arm, "He's more of a partner. He's delaying the case of 'Bake-Idiot-Anderson-A-Bloody-Cake,' though."

"Fine, fine. One teaspoon vanilla." Sherlock picked up the teaspoon and John stretched another arm to take the vanilla from the table.

The detective scoffed. "Is there a reason the ingredients are over there?"

"Do you want a cluttered workspace? Didn't think so. You do that, I'll start putting this stuff away." John handed the vanilla to Sherlock and turned to take the flour, sugar, frosting, and baking soda to the cabinets. He then returned for the butter, strawberries, and vanilla, which he put in the fridge beside the dismembered fingers. "Still got fingers in here, have we?" he said over his shoulder.

"I like to snack on them when you're at work."

"I don't doubt it. Alright, now the eggs. Make sure not to get the shells in batter."

"How many?" Sherlock asked as he opened the carton. 

"Three." John took the carton from Sherlock once his large hand collected three white eggs. He nestled them on the bottom shelf of the fridge and returned to his position beside Sherlock. He moved closer in. He imagined himself wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist from behind and guiding him to cracking the eggs properly. He almost would have, too, if Sherlock hadn't been so graceful into dropping the egg whites and yolks into the bowl.

John took the shells from Sherlock's hands, which were now partially slimy, and looked around for a compost. "We have decomposing human fingers in the fridge, yet we don't have a compost. Life with Sherlock Holmes."

"Forgive me, I forgot we were extreme environmentalists." John played a game in his head. How many times would Sherlock use the term "we" if he did? It was a foolish thing to count, but he was him and Sherlock was Sherlock, and that was something they both liked to do.

"Fine. Into the garbage they go." He threw the shells under the sink and into the bin. "Last thing, a cup of milk."

Sherlock moved to the center table and fetched it. He was so calm in pouring that John felt rude for having babied him earlier. After Sherlock poured, John capped the milk and brought it to the fridge. They wove around each other in sync, Sherlock moving toward the bowls as John left, both of them wiping their hands on their respective clothes. Well, the apron and John's shirt. 

The kitchen was light while the stairs leading up to John's bedroom and the entirety of Sherlock's room were dark. The lamps had been dimmed in the living room and John felt that the city was asleep while he danced around making cake. Baking with Sherlock in the late evening was definitely fulfilling, but the darkness seeped through the windows and reminded John that not everyone in London was experiencing something such as this at this moment. Thinking outside of himself, his eyes landed on the window above the sink. It was definitely night out, which gave his cooking lesson with Sherlock a more intimate feel. It was nice, just being there with him, in the kitchen, after dark.

John refocused his thoughts. He moved back to the station and yawned.

The oven beeped as he did so. Coming off the edge of the yawn, he said, "Perfect. Now just mix, pour, and bake. Once it's cool, we frost."

Sherlock stretched, the small shirt riding high on his lean stomach and tight hips. John's face prickled as his eyes dropped lower, Sherlock's dark curls almost peeking from the hem of his pajamas. They disappeared beneath the blue as he rolled back, the shirt lowering itself once again. "Alright."

"You tired?"

"Never."

John found himself lost in Sherlock's intense eyes for a few seconds as he asked that, but the detective didn't seem to mind.

* * *

Sherlock watched as his blogger retrieved two spoons; one wooden and one metal. He handed the wooden one to Sherlock and directed him to mix. He set about mixing the wet. It was a few minutes before both bowls were mixed properly, but John's took longer due to the stiff butter. "Trouble with the butter?"

"Fuck off." 

"This language hurts me, John." Sherlock teased. He liked unleashing every teenage-like sarcastic remark upon John. He only combatted it and tried to top it, his competitive nature running his mouth. John just shook his head and pushed Sherlock's hands down to the counter, the bowl hitting the surface gently. John poured the wet into the dry as Sherlock mixed them together. 

It was calm between them. Working together, silent in the kitchen. John let Sherlock mix the rest as he bent down and retrieved two circular pans from the lower cupboard. Sherlock was surprised that they even had the required tools, but John must've asked Mrs. Hudson to donate to the cause after they'd moved in. The thought that John was personalizing their home without Sherlock's permission made him strangely happy. John lifted the two to the counter and quickly reached for the nonstick spray, applying it thick over both of the heavy pans' surfaces. He darted to the cupboard and back, a small handful of flour in his palm. He dusted some over both pans and clapped his hands together, a puff off white swirling into the air like chalkboard dust.

"Now, half and half." Sherlock was instructed to do so and lifted the now smooth, creamy batter to the first pan. It was slow and thick as it filled the pan nearly to the brim. He moved to the second pan, his arm close to John's chest as it held the bowl. "I'm sorry this has taken so long," John said.

"Don't be. I had to learn eventually." Sherlock held the bowl still as John scraped the remaining batter into the pans. He licked the spatula. "Unhealthy?"

"No, try it." 

Sherlock took a fingerful from the brim of the bowl and tried it. His face was puzzled for a moment before turning light, his mouth tugging into a small smile. "Not bad."

"Good. Any last words to this cake before it goes in the oven?"

"Yes, you've got some on your face." Sherlock had used a separate finger to scoop a bit of batter from the bowl and dab it on John's cheek.

John acted as if he were riled and angry, dramatically wiping it away. "I'll forget you did that… Mostly because you have some on yours!"

The doctor stole the remaining batter and plopped it on Sherlock's prominent nose. Sherlock just smiled. "Baking is really just chemistry. Turning a liquid to a solid via exposure to heat."

John pulled the oven open, releasing a wave of heat to enter the already warm kitchen. He slid both pans in and set the timer for thirty minutes. "Exactly. … Now we wait."

Sherlock stretched again, this time curling forward. "What to do for half an hour..?" 

"If you're thinking of throwing flour on me, I suggest you get the broom out now."

"I would have, but you've put it away. Shall I order?"

"Yes please." John wiped his hands on his apron and took it off. Sherlock had disappeared into the living room and was tapping away on his phone, his hands clean of any batter. His nose, however, was still not.

John brought himself into the living room and leaned on the back of his chair, propped on his elbows. "Yes, hello," Sherlock said, "Can I place an order? Yes, I know it's late for dinner. Nevermind that. Can I have an order of Kung-Pao chicken, sweet and sour pork, vegetable stir fry, chow mien, and plain white rice? The address is 221B Baker Street. Thank you."

As Sherlock was ordering, John motioned to his nose. Sherlock played it off as if he didn't notice. However, before he had hung up, John had crossed the living room, scooped the batter off Sherlock's nose, and licked it from his finger. The worry that Sherlock would find that unappealing was gone once he'd ended the call and smiled. "Anderson will be so pleased."

"Don't hold your breath," John was standing as Sherlock was sitting, "we haven't finished yet."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flirty babies in the kitchen! [Based on my other fic titled just that]
> 
> You know, the recipe John used in this is legitimate. It's just a basic yellow cake from Pillsbury.com


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock somehow found the act of John meticulously working the cake extremely satisfying to watch.

John was the one to open the door and retrieve the food. He paid the man and tipped him for his trouble. He nodded curtly and shut the door, returning up the stairs excitedly. The flat smelled like cake. Sherlock was cleaning the kitchen table when John brought forth the food. He hadn't changed out of John's shirt. "Trash telly?" he asked.

"Of course." It was almost nine and Sherlock moved to the television, where a cheesy, over-saturated romance drama was ending. 

The doctor pulled open the plastic bag and retrieved the cartons and chopsticks. He opened the cartons to check which was which and brought four of the six to Sherlock, who was settling down in his chair. He passed the vegetable str fry and the plain rice to Sherlock, leaving the sweet and pour pork and chow mien for himself. John decided to update his blog, so he took a seat at the living room table and set his cartons down. He looked over at Sherlock, who was already digging into his food, a piece of kale entering his mouth as the credits rolled quickly on the screen. 

The television blared a commercial for the next episode in the series. Apparently, some character named Michaela was going to dump some bloke named Charlie for another bloke named Samuel. John rolled his eyes, Michaela's squeaky voice ringing through the flat. He pulled his laptop closer and opened it. He typed in the password "kungpaochicken" and pulled up his blog.

Sherlock and John ate, typed, and watched calmly. John was happy to have dinner in his stomach, and he greedily ate the pork and noodles. Every once and a while Sherlock yelled at the T.V. and John smirked. Every once and while, John had to backspace a bit of writing. Every once in a while, Michaela cried from the television. It was a good night, a serene bit of domestic bliss.

However, their still time was disturbed when the oven beeped. "Cake!" John said. 

* * *

He hustled to the kitchen, Sherlock still entranced by the ridiculous sexual relationships of the people on screen. _This is why I don't prefer to partake in sex,_ he thought to himself.

John had opened the oven, poked the cake with the clean end of his chopstick, and withdrew it smoothly. It was clean, so he reached for the oven mitts hanging above the oven and slipped them on. He took one pan out and set it on the stove, then the second. There was no room for two cakes in the fridge at the moment, so he contemplated what Sherlock had said about the butter and decided to move the cakes father away from the oven and closer to the window, which he opened slightly to air out the kitchen.

 "Looks good," John said. He beamed at Sherlock from around the corner.

 _But that will most likely change soon…_ Sherlock mentally added. He'd almost forgotten what had happened in the shower that morning, but John's sunny smile brought it back.

John bounced back over to his seat and said, "We need to let it cool for about an hour, and then we can frost."

"This seems like far too much work for a birthday."

"You had fun, don't lie."

"I'm not lying, I'm simply not telling." _You do it all the time._

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"Clearly." Sherlock shot a sully glance at John before his countenance broken into a smile and he had to turn his head back to the television to hide it. John resumed typing up the case of the uncle. After a few minutes, he called over.

"What was the girl's name?"

Sherlock spoke without turning around, his knees now drawn into his chest. "Sophia."

"And the boy?"

"Brandon."

"Right."

"You're not writing their names into that blog, are you? Isn't that classified information?"

John pondered for a moment, "I always change the names anyway."

"Hm."

The blogger resumed blogging, and the detective resumed guessing the outcome of Michaela's love triangle. 

John and Sherlock continued on. By the time the episode was over, Sherlock leapt from the chair and switched off the T.V. "I knew it! Michaela jut wanted Charlie jealous of Sam!"

"Fascinating."

"Which is why she dumped Charlie on a whim, with no explanation."

"Perfect."

"The sex was great, though, so she cheated on Sam with Charlie anyway."

"What?" John's ears perked at the word 'sex' from Sherlock's voice, but when he'd turned around, Sherlock was already heading over to the window.

"Mind if I play for a while?" he asked.

* * *

"No, please." John shook his head and resumed updating. He was nearly finished. The case had been solved quickly, so John wrote more into it, giving the background situation as Sherlock had deduced it in more of an anecdote. 

The violin music started and dropped low, a very slow, pulsing tune. It was rather melancholy and lonely.

Over the minutes that passed, John had finished his new entry and was now playing online Scrabble with the computer. The music got sharper, more refined, and it suddenly became very quick and fast-paced. There were two chords dancing around each other, chasing each other's tails, but something sounded off. John listened intently as he played the word "balloon" on the 'n' and scored eight points.

The music changed into a more timid tune, the chords beginning to blend and work together. It was quiet, but it worked. The computer was beating John, the movement of the city in Sherlock's view minimal. John huffed a breath at his defeat and turned to face Sherlock.

He watched the man play. Every muscle and ounce of energy was channeled into the instrument, Sherlock's body breathing life back into the tune as it quickened again. It was steady and beating, but John knew Sherlock could play faster. He didn't say anything though, for he was captivated. Sherlock was still wearing John's shirt, and it rippled with his arms pulling at the bowstring. Sherlock felt the music, that was obvious, but John felt it, too. It was strangely familiar. 

* * *

Sherlock breathed the music, his fingers pressing into the strings of the awakening instrument. He'd been composing this piece for a while, and he felt this time he was getting it just right. He closed his eyes and listened to the high and low notes, the screech and hum of the chords. He was just about to transition into the darker part of his composition when he decided it needed more perfecting. He slowed the music to a gradual stop and lifted the violin from his shoulder. He set it down carefully and watched as a light in the window across the street turned out.

"Brilliant," John said. 

"Glad you think so. How's the cake?"

"Let's see." John stood from the chair and moved to the kitchen. He tapped a finger on the shiny surface of the cake. "It's cool now. Let me just - " John retrieved the cake dish that Mycroft had sent over because Sherlock had teased him so much about his weight and set it on the counter. It was designed beautifully, shaped with a thin neck and round top. John flipped the first cake upside down, a palm to steady it, before slipping it onto the dish, flat side up. The second went untouched, for the moment. John pulled out the frosting and quickly grabbed the spatula which Sherlock had graciously washed and left in the sink. He wiped it on a flannel, scooped some frosting onto it, and spread it over the lumpy surface of the bottom cake. 

Sherlock wandered into the kitchen as John was spreading it, thick and even. He then set the frosting down and added the second cake on top, flat side up. He stepped back and brushed his hands as if he were a professional baker. "Seal the halves together with cream before frosting it whole. If you put the flat sides down and up, it won't slide around, and it'll be smoother to frost."

The detective's eyes were wide. He somehow found the act of John meticulously working the cake extremely satisfying to watch. "Shall we?" he asked.

"Yes." John said. 

The men took turns spreading the frosting evenly over the cake, John telling Sherlock to move the spatula one way only so the bread of the cake didn't tear. In about ten minutes, with some nudging and frosting-tasting in between, the cake was covered in white and looking pretty.

"Strawberries," Sherlock noted. 

"Yes. Wash them and cut the tops off, and we'll put them on."

"John Watson," Sherlock huffed as he opened the fridge for the berries, "Why didn't you become a baker?"

"Because war," he said coldly. 

Sherlock didn't respond as began cutting the strawberries' tops off, John watching him with a sly grin from his position beside the cake.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trash telly! 
> 
> Bonus points if you recognize the story I was trying to reference with the violin music. B)


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock had to tell him what was happening.

Once the refrigerator was rearranged to make room for the cake, John and Sherlock resumed their night activities. John attempted to play another game of Scrabble while Sherlock sifted through the papers for a bit of light deducing. John had packed the remaining Chinese food and was feeling full and happy. He thought to himself, glancing over at Sherlock every few minutes.

 _I should say something… Something clear and direct, not any of this vague bullshit. He needs to know that I enjoy every second I get to spend with him. He needs to know how much I appreciate how hard he tries._ John cleared his throat. "Sherlock."

The detective did not look up from the paper. "Hm?"

"I really had fun tonight."

"I'm glad."

"Didn't you?"

"Yes."

John took the hint and dropped the conversation. Sherlock's excited composure had suddenly shattered and he had built his walls high once more. John hoped this didn't mean they had to start over. He clenched his fists as he often did and pushed through the tense silence. "We've definitely come a long way."

At this, Sherlock rose his eyes. They were fierce and burning and John nearly regretted ever thinking he'd be able to confirm the nature of their relationship. He thought of the rules he'd broken in the last week, of all the hurdles he'd jumped and how he darted around direct confrontation and played Sherlock's twisted game. But he couldn't do that forever, not telling was as bad as lying. He needed confirmation, especially after the events of earlier that night. Something strange flickered in Sherlock's face before he dropped his gaze. John watched his jaw tighten and his shoulders tense. Something was off.

"Yes, we have." He ruffled his paper.

"To think we were stubborn arseholes a few weeks ago… Now we bake cakes." He chuckled nervously.

"Hm."

John was getting irritated now. He found this sort of stuff difficult, and he didn't appreciate being met with rudeness when he was trying his best to be sincere. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Liar."

* * *

Sherlock was a liar. There was definitely something wrong. The moment John had beamed at he and Sherlock's accomplishment with the cake, Sherlock knew he was headed for a road that he'd never be able to walk.

He realized with a start that he and John couldn't stay up late and prance around the kitchen forever. The way John had looked at him as he closed the fridge door, his apron dusty with flour, his cheeks flushed, his eyes sparkling as they were squished in by his worn under-eye bags, made Sherlock melancholy. John looked at him as if he knew everything was going to be okay, that he and Sherlock would be flatmates who ate their weight in take-out until the end of their days. But Sherlock knew reality better than John Watson, for he was more logic and less romantic. He knew that because of his inability to maintain relationships and live a non-threatening life, that he and John wouldn't have that. He noted that soon John would want more and more things from him, and he painfully told himself that he'd never be able to give him those things. The fact was, as much as he cared for John Watson, Sherlock thought he would never be what John needed. John deserved more than someone who would lack crucial characteristics. John would get bored. Sherlock thought that he wouldn't be able to give him normal, commitment, security, or sex. Sherlock strongly believed that he didn't deserve the kindness John was giving him when he would never be able to reciprocate. Sherlock's eyes felt fuzzy as he concentrated on the ink on paper before him, but the words blurred as he spoke. "I'm going to bed."

He felt too heavy to move, but he tried to stand nonetheless. The room was tight and hot and Sherlock felt he couldn't breathe, even more so when John snapped at him. He resisted the urge to claw at his chest helplessly.

"No - stop. Tell me what's wrong." Sherlock avoided looking into John's eyes, for he knew they'd be filled with worry. Sherlock swallowed through a dry throat and crumpled the paper in his clawed hands.

"Nothing. I'm tired. Leave me alone." His thighs tensed sorely and he bore down through John's voice as he pushed himself up. The newspaper fluttered to the floor innocently. Sherlock felt dizzy. The room was red and his palms stung from his nails digging into them from his fist. Sherlock wasn't sure what his body was doing, but he knew he had to get as far away from John as possible. _I won't drag you down, John Watson. You deserve better._

"Sherlock." John leapt to his feet and cut Sherlock off. The detective barely got a few steps in before John was staring up at him with a look of pain and concern. His face was dangerously close, only another reason why Sherlock would never be what John wanted. He could never look that way. He would never be able to close the space between them in a searing kiss, he'd never be able to confront such a machine as himself.

Sherlock's view was still misted, but John's clear eyes cut through and bore into him like razors. He was almost too deep in self loathing to hear John's plea, but there was a crack in his voice that made Sherlock break his own veil. "Sherlock, Sherlock. You're going to tell me what's happening. Are you in pain? Are you thinking of using again? Are you having a panic attack?"

 _Please don't, John. I'm not worth your effort. I'm a failure, a lost cause. I'm just a defect… and I have nothing to give you._ Sherlock knew he looked like a fool. He knew he was a whiny child, seeking attention from someone he knew wouldn't care to deal with him for long. He must have reacted physically to John's presence, because when he pushed to refocus his eyes once more, John looked incredibly pained. 

His arms soon felt lighter, the tight weight only revealing itself once it was gone. John had taken a few steps back.

* * *

John had released Sherlock's forearms, which he'd been gripping forcefully. Sherlock looked terrible. He scowled and grit his teeth so hard that John thought he was taking a bullet through the heart. Sherlock was frozen in place but his chest was heaving, a slight sweat prickling on his brow. He snarled and pulled his head away in a terrifying snap. He shut his eyes tight and was lost to an extremely plaguing thought. John stepped back and swallowed his own panic. _What's happening to you? What can I do?_ "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Have I done something wrong?"

Sherlock's eyes were glazed once he'd opened them once more. He was forcing himself to meet John's, but once he did, he seemed to pull his gaze away, disappointment on his face. It looked agonizing. John was scared. Sherlock muttered a few words, "Don't. Just - don't."

John didn't want to be angry at Sherlock, but he was confusing and scary and definitely wasn't making any of this easier. The frantic man finally moved his long legs and carried himself quickly towards the kitchen, his limbs tense and rigid. Upon stopping, his wild hands flew into his hair and scraped down the sides of his face. 

"Tell me what's happening, Sherlock!"

"No. I can't. You don't need this." His words were broken and sharp.

John followed him, his pride falling with every strained step. "Don't need this? What don't I need? Sherlock, I don't want to be angry with you…"

Sherlock's eyes popped open once more and landed on John's. John's heart balked momentarily, a crazed fear in Sherlock's usually sly face. John was terrified at how quickly he'd transitioned from impassive to insane, and John found himself feeling more distressed by the second. Sherlock had to tell him what was happening. Sherlock needed to confide in him, since John was more than willing to be his confidant. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. John started as Sherlock nearly screamed the next phrase.

"Please, be angry at me!"

"Fine!" John shoved himself up against the center table, pushing himself as close to Sherlock's tense form as he could get. His breath was hot and his throat was dry. "I try really hard, Sherlock. I try hard to make everything nice and normal. I fetch the food, I work the job, I clean up after myself. I try hard so that we can have one normal night, one normal _date_ , with takeout and television and something - _something_. I try so hard for you!"

If there was a way for Sherlock to look even more pained, even more broken than he had - this was it.

* * *

 _No, John, please don't! Don't try for me! Don't try to fix things! I'm not worth your time! Don't prove your adoration to me when I know it's false! It's an error!_ Sherlock's mind was spouting off self-loathing insults as his breath became more rapid. He was charging down the halls of his mind palace, beating at the walls and searching frantically for files he couldn't find. He wanted to pull up evidence that would prove that he would be enough for John, that their own little infinity of lounging around in their flat would be enough. Unfortunately, his over-active mind was nearly imploding with ache and he couldn't find what he needed. He was hanging by his fingernails to sanity, knowing that the sane part left of him wanted to confess, to have a common thought, to be needy and let John help him. He wanted to tell John that he broke his promise. It was unrealistic, what John was searching for with those lovely eyes, even if Sherlock had told him he'd try.

Sherlock's lips dropped and closed with the start of every confession, but he was an incomplete fool and his thoughts meshed with his voice. His mind continued to frazzle and burn as he switched from voice to thought. "Just stop. Stop trying, you're never going to…" _be able to give him what he wants. You're pathetic._

"I'm never going to what?"

The man was oblivious to anything John was saying. He was too far gone. _You're not worth his trouble. You're a burden. You'll never.._ "be good enough!"

The detective was rocking back and forth now, pressing his knuckles into his tendons. He continued to spiral down into his own pain, ignorant to John's attentive eyes and ears. The other man's breath hitched. "What did you just say?"

"Oh, for God's sakes!" _Why are you still here? He doesn't want you here. Why can't you leave? You should leave._ "Just leave!"

If John's heart were made of crystal, it would have just dropped to floor and cracked. "Is that it? I'm not good enough for you? You want me to leave?"

Sherlock keeled forward, the insults driving themselves deeper into his mind. He was shaking, gritting his teeth, and cursing under his breath. The thoughts only plagued him more as the faintest trace of John's voice drifted through. _Tell him you're going to stop bothering him. Tell him he's not going to have to put up with you anymore. Tell him -_ but Sherlock couldn't tell John any of that, even if they were false claims made by Sherlock in the midst of his self-deprecating, because the man had gone.

John had left. He'd simply grabbed his coat and his wallet and fled out of the flat, his stomach churning so viciously he could have vomited.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the bit of the fic that made me question tagging it with angst, but then I remembered that there are entire fics dedicated to major character death and I was like nahhh.
> 
> Still pretty painful though, I hope.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cabbie glanced in the rearview mirror at John.

The soldier was clenching his fists and tensing his muscles to keep himself stiff as he walked quickly away from his flat. The cold night chilled the tip of his nose, but his face was hot. The blanket of blue was no longer calming - it was deceptive. A cab pulled up beside the sidewalk and John scrambled in before it'd even come to a complete stop. 

"Oi, mate! In a hurry?"

John didn't want to open his mouth because he felt like he'd scream if he did. But he pushed the words out anyway. "The nearest motel, please."

"Alright…" The cabbie looked put off and remained silent as he pulled away from the curb. John didn't want to look back at the lit window of his home, he didn't want Sherlock to be a part of his life anymore. Or, to be more accurate, he didn't want to be a part of Sherlock's.

He covered his face in hands and tried desperately not to replay the event. He failed. John let himself grieve from the back of the cab, his ribs oddly sore.

Sherlock had looked so done, so pained. He was going mad with the confession he'd kept in, the confession that he believed John wasn't good enough for him and he didn't want him anymore. John cursed and furrowed his brows to release the pounding tension in his head. He recalled the past week with the new information he so horribly just received.

John Watson had been right in his beliefs - he wasn't good enough for Sherlock Holmes. He trailed him like a puppy, following him wherever he went - but all those times Sherlock had seemed aggravated or done with John, his act was faltering. How he'd managed to maintain his lie for the majority of the week was incredible. Incredible and heartbreaking. He'd been played, John thought. Sherlock put up with him and played his affections and emotions to keep John bending at his whim, but even a genius like Holmes couldn't lie forever. The weight crashed down on him and he had to let John down. John would _never_ be good enough for Sherlock Holmes. It'd been easier for the man to lie when they were just flatmates, but as soon as John began foolishly trying to date him, he'd been put off and weirded out. He'd played the game, even made a few adjustments to the arena, but he grew tired and realized that John couldn't carry out his duties properly. He was just a stupid pawn in the man's game, and Sherlock loved making new rules. 

The cabbie glanced in the rearview mirror at John. He was falling apart.

How foolish he was to assume that Sherlock's strange actions were stepping stones in their relationship. Sherlock's kind words beyond the door, the flaunting of his body, his compliant nature to flirt - _God,_ even the wanking all seemed tainted now. They were lies, tricks. Sherlock Holmes didn't feel. Sherlock Holmes didn't _actually_ want to progress their "relationship." Like he'd said, he was clueless. _That should have been a sign. That should have been a bloody sign. Of course he didn't want to work it out with me, of course he wanted no part in being with me. He shut me out for a year and realized his mistake the moment Mrs. Hudson pointed out our "anniversary." That was almost a week ago. A sodding week. No wonder he felt so strange - I'd been stumbling head over heels for him for a week!_ John's sense of worthlessness appeared in waves, coating him in the familiar loathing he felt when he'd been in and returned from war. 

He finally raised his head and sucked in a breath, attempting to calm himself. It didn't work - the breath hurt his tender lungs. His insides had been tightening painfully ever since Sherlock began to freak, and only now did he groan to release them.

"You alright there, mate?" the cabbie asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"I'm a cab driver, not dumb. We've a few more miles 'til a motel. Tell me what's on your mind. Trouble with the missus?"

John scoffed, _Basically._ "Well, not exactly. Have you ever… Have you ever been so wrong about a person…?"

"Aye, many a time. What were you wrong about?"

"I thought that we would be more than… just friends. But it's complicated."

The cabbie lifted his left hand from the steering wheel and motioned to John between the passenger seat and himself. He waved it understandably. "If you don't mind me asking, what's complicated about it?"

John swallowed his pride and said it simply. "They think I'm not good enough for them."

The cabbie was silent as he slowed the cab at a stoplight. He looked over his shoulder at John. He was older and gave John a once-over. "Shame," he said. "You look like a right bloke."

"Thanks…"

They rode in silence after that. John didn't feel much like talking. John watched his city pass by. The colors of the buildings, shops, and streetlamps would have been beautiful if he didn't feel like every bit of it had betrayed him. He noted the lit windows and the shadows moving in them. He caught glimpses of strangely shaped buildings through the block silhouettes. He rested his head on the window and closed his eyes. The hum of the cab almost lulled him to sleep, but his mind was too strained.

A few more stoplights passed, although the dark roads were less than busy, and the cabbie sounded that they were close. John rose his eyes and spoke again once he saw the lit motel sign. He cleared his throat, "Thank you… for the talk, too. I'm going to try… to figure it out. This'll cover the ride?" John handed the cabbie some money and left quickly, eager to be alone, despite the chatty cabbie's friendly intrigue.

He waved John off once he was out of the cab and disappeared into the night. John looked around. He was fairly familiar with this area of town, but he reckoned it didn't matter. He just needed to get away.

John made his way towards the motel. Luckily, it was still open. He tried to be brave in this adventure, already missing the smell of his sheets in 221B. He pushed himself inside, warmth blanketing him. However, the chill of the night stayed with him as he approached the counter. A tired looking woman spoke to him. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah. Can I get a room? Nothing… fancy…" He looked around. It was a mediocre place. Yellows, browns, and greens patterned the walls. There were some chairs in the lobby and a grand desk, the stubborn woman playing with her pen when he'd entered. The entirety of it wasn't ravishing and it wasn't rubbish. He didn't know how long he'd stay or even if he'd spend the night at all. It was a decision on a whim and he tried to forget what caused him to leave in the first place. He carried out the rest of the procedure, the woman looking more sullen with each passing minute. When he'd finally obtained a key to a room, he breathed a sigh of relief and made his way down the hallway. He passed by the paintings and vases, an attempt at making things feel homey.

It was far from home, though.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uplifting cab drivers are my favorite.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John jumped to the next idea, eager to find more reasons to hate himself and his situation.

The first thing John did upon entering his motel room was shed his jacket. It wasn't particularly warm in the one-bed, small area, but his heart was aching and he wanted to feel some sort of chill to match it. He didn't turn the lights on.

John frantically tried to busy his body before he let his mind sink into the deep hurt he was only just scraping at. He paced the room. He rolled his neck. He set his wallet on the bedside nightstand. He sat on the bed. He stood from the bed. He crossed to the window. He crossed back. He wrung his hands. He checked the clock, finally still on the bed, lying face up. He prepared himself to think about things even more than he did in the cab.

 _10:13. What a shit day. I started off wanking to the thought of a dripping wet Sherlock, then I went from work, to the store, to baking a bloody cake, to eating takeout, to updating my blog, to spending time with him, to having him freak out on me. What the hell even was that? One second, he was snarky and rude, the next he was nearly pulling his hair out._ John tried to treat Sherlock badly in his mind, but as he thought of the pain and disappointment in the man's eyes, he gave it up.

 _He looked so disappointed in me. Of course he did. I'm just a plain doctor chasing after one of the smartest men in the world. Actually chasing, too. I trail after him as he goes after criminals, like the first night I met him. God, the bad cabbie. And the suitcase. And the flutist. All those cases, all those adventures… It worked. We worked. Somehow, it was all fine. He spat out insults, I praised him. He made fun of everyone, I laughed beside him. He shut me out, I opened up. I adored and looked up to him. ...How pathetic. That must've gotten to his head. He never returned the compliment. …Not that there's anything there to note._ John pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

 _But then things started to change. They changed when Mrs. Hudson called out our anniversary. And after the case, when we confessed - no,_ I _confessed - being attracted to him. He just gave a little spiel about how he wanted to try harder. Try at what? Being the best detective he can be? Putting up with me? Playing the game better? How could I have thought he meant to try a romantic relationship? He's bloody SHERLOCK! He doesn't believe in any of that. And if he did, it wouldn't be with me._

_Oh, God… He probably wasn't even wanking to anything in particular this morning. God, I'm such a creep. I'm disgusting. I just stood there, listening, like a pervert. Oh, my God._

John sat up, his hands pulling at the edge of the bed. _And for me to assume we just started dating out of the blue, without saying anything. No "define the relationship." I just_ assumed. _No wonder he was weirded out by me._

He dipped his head and grit his teeth. _He wasn't interested in the first place. John, you stupid prick, he said he wasn't. But you just kept at it, obsessed. You were obsessed with him. And he pushed himself away, but no. You didn't get the hint. You couldn't have. You didn't get the hint with those men in Afghanistan and you didn't at Angelo's. You didn't with Mycroft's attractive assistant when he abducted you, and you didn't with all the women who never gave you their numbers. How many people have you scared off? How many have you pushed away?_

Wondering which of his past girlfriends had felt smothered by him, he stood from the bed and moved to the window. The light drizzle from hours previous had become heavier drops - not enough to be noticed, but there nonetheless. John jumped to the next idea, eager to find more reasons to hate himself and his situation. _And I don't even know anything about him from before. What was he like as a kid? Did he have school crushes? Did he want to be something other than a detective? Had he ever been with someone? Did he have girlfriends? … No, that's not his area. I know that. Then again, neither am I, and he lied about wanting me, too._

The rain seemed fitting, and John leaned closer to the glass, his breath hot. A little fog spread across the surface as he sighed deeply. His hands pulled hopelessly at the windowsill, and he watched a lone raindrop slide down the glass. It stopped halfway. Beyond it, the greys and blues of the city masked the dark silhouettes of buildings. There were still some lit windows, as there had been on Baker Street. John's motel room was not one of them. He wallowed in the dark, only the faint glow from the moon shone though. He looked up at it.

 _I shouldn't have played his game. I should never have assumed so much of him. He doesn't have time for dating._ John squeezed his eyes shut, trapping the matching raindrop that stung behind his lid from racing its brother down his cheek. _He just doesn't have time for me._

The drop ignored his plea. John slid down onto the floor, his arm scraping the sill. He stopped trying to hold himself up and let his head fall back against the wall. He pulled his legs in. _Why am I even trying to justify anything? I complain that he wronged me. I'm selfish that way. Me, me, me. This whole year has been about me. When will Sherlock date_ me _? When will_ I _be able to get on Lestrade's good side? When will_ my _safety be of importance?_

John stopped kidding himself. _No, that's wrong. None of it was ever about me. It was always about him. It was always putting trust in him, following him, questioning him, accepting him, noticing him, being surprised by him, being exasperated by him, seeing him, dreaming of him, comparing myself to him… The list goes on. Everything is always Sherlock. Pretty sure I even thought of Sherlock when I was with my girlfriends._

He laughed helplessly at that. He moved his hands from his knees to his head, his fingernails scraping at his scalp. The pain inside him had subsided from rage and was now a dull ache. He continued stringing out his ideas. _Why?! Why is it like that? Why can't I just live my life without him being the center of everything? The people he knows do it all the time. Lestrade, Donovan, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, even Anderson. They got the butt end of Sherlock, only ever seeing him at his snappiest, and yet they still continue on in life. But I can't do that. My life revolves around the bastard._

John was tired of his own voice in his head by this point, so he decided to fill it with someone else's. He would have picked Sherlock's, but the only words that he could hear in that unmistakable baritone were "You'll never be good enough." No, he needed another opinion. But who to contact? Who was up late, knew both Sherlock and him personally, and would be willing to talk to him about it? John's sore heart sparked, _Lestrade._

 _Lestrade. I need to ask Lestrade._ John reached into his pocket awkwardly from his sitting position and retrieved his phone. He was holding his breath at the thought that he'd have a message from Sherlock, but he shook the thought away, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't have noticed he'd left. He unlocked the phone and swiped his finger through the menu until he found his contacts. He clicked Lestrade's name and prayed that he'd pick up. He seldom called the man, but he seemed a smart choice, seeing as his interest piqued when John so stupidly let on that he and Sherlock were something more. He raised the phone to his ear. With each ring, he felt worse. In the middle of the fourth, however, the line connected.

"Lestrade, it's John. I know it's late but I need to talk to you about Sherlock."

There was a strange silence on the other end. Then, "What has my brother done now?"

John's stomach sunk. This was not someone who would understand John's current state. "Mycroft?"

"Yes. Lestrade's sleeping. Do you want me to wake him? Or is this something that we can both forget about in the morning? Although, by the sound of your erratic breaths, this seems to be important. And it concerns my brother, so I'm interested."

Shocked and slightly embarrassed, John tried to divert the conversation away from himself until he could figure out what to ask. "Alright. You say Lestrade's asleep? Is he next you to? I mean - "

"If you're wondering if we're in the same bed at the moment, you'd be correct."

"Huh." John suppressed a chuckle at the thought of Mycroft being sexually active. "How's that going?"

"It's peachy," the older Holmes brother said. "Now, talk to me about that idiot."

"Erm… well, alright. I don't know how to put this but lately…"

"You've had feelings for my brother for some time now, yes, we all know this. Moving on."

John almost had forgotten what kind of men the Holmes were. Sherlock rarely deduced him anymore. "Right, you knew that. Okay, do you know how he feels about me?"

"It would ruin the game if I told you."

"Fuck the game! The game is bullshit! Look, all I know is that in the past week - things had been different. I honestly believed he and I were transitioning into being a couple. No, don't sigh, listen to me. He did a lot of things he never had done before, and I played along and crossed barriers as well. I told him that I was and am currently attracted to him, and the next day he paraded around the flat with no shirt on. Other things happened, and he eventually ended up asking me to teach him how to bake. _That_ event made it clear that there was something else. I'm not as smart as you, Mycroft, but I'm not a fool. There was something else there. And so I tried to confirm it and he shut me down. He tensed up and avoided me and ignored me and eventually said 'You'll never be good enough,' and asked me to leave. So I left. I'm currently curled up in a sodding motel, in the dark, asking you to help me."

Mycroft was noiseless on the receiving end. When he did speak, however, John let him. "You know that I'm not particularly fond of work and relationships mixing…"

"…Yes."

"Because in the field that Sherlock chose, caring isn't an advantage. It won't solve the case faster if he cries for the dead little girl. However, as he is my brother, I know him better than he'd like to admit. He is extremely sensitive and tries very hard to be cold, but that's not him. He cares for plenty of things, and I know that you, John Watson, are one of them."

John let the weight of his words sink in. Mycroft was on his side. Sort of. "Forgive me, but I'm in a rather messy state. You're saying that Sherlock is actually a big softie?"

"I suppose so. And I guess by principle, that means I am, as well. If you permit me to use personal example…"

"Please."

"I'm a rather unpleasant man, I am aware. I found myself pushing my ideas of loneliness versus heartbreak onto Sherlock as he grew, since I was afraid of ever being close to people. I would tell him not to get involved. For that, I wish to apologize to my brother, but as he would tease me endlessly about how lonely I was, I assume all is forgiven. Of course, it took far too long for me to accept other people into my life. Greg was patient with me, mostly for having dealt with Sherlock when he started abusing heroin. He made the connection between me and my younger brother almost immediately after meeting me. It took years for him to gain my complete trust, but with it, he gained my heart. It's a difficult predicament, falling for a Holmes, and I'm still not certain why Greg did. But he put up with me and took his time with me, and for that, I'm eternally grateful. What this means for you, John Watson, is for you to continue forcing Sherlock to see what he has. He's a very insecure man; he always questions his worth. But I know that you care for him to no extent, and you, of all people, seem the right one to crack my brother. As for what he said to make you leave, it must have been miscommunication. My brother cares for you and trusts you more than anyone. He'd be lost without his blogger." 

John swore he heard Mycroft smile at the end of the advice. This may have been a better opportunity for insight than Lestrade, for Mycroft provided sound evidence. John was relieved, but there was still something he was missing. He ignored it for the moment as he said, "Thank you, Mycroft. Really, this has been extremely helpful. I suppose this means you approve of me pursuing your brother?"

"You, John Watson, more than anyone."

The doctor smiled to himself, his heart lightening. He was about to ask about Sherlock's childhood and how he got along with other kids when he heard a rustle, a click, and another voice.

"Mycroft? Is that my phone?"

"My apologies, John, my detective has awoken. I hope everything works out with yours. Cheers." Mycroft hung up.

John held the phone in his fingers for a few seconds longer before letting slip into his lap. Mycroft approved. He, of all of Sherlock's acquaintances, had the most insight. He watched Sherlock grow, as well as having tuned his Sherlock research perfectly. John was satisfied with himself and the advice he received. 

John's ribs had stopped aching and his head had stopped pounding. He popped his neck and back and stood from the floor, knees creaking. He made his way to the bed and laid himself upon it, stretching his spine. He sighed in relief.

 _So Sherlock cares for me. That… makes more sense. He said he did, on the other side of the door. And it makes everything else seem right. He_ was _saying he'd try harder. At least try harder about caring and honesty and attraction… The relationship jump might have been my fault._ John grinned, his cheeks spreading with warmth and tightness. 

_Then the way he acted this past week was due to him responding to my force to "crack" him. Sherlock knows that he's a difficult man, and he wants to try to be better. Which he was. He was better. He even joked lightly about us, in one way or another._

John rolled onto his side, tucking his hands into the crook of his neck. He rustled to pull the sleeves of his jumper over them. He didn't know if he was going to sleep or not, but his angst-ridden self-loathing from earlier had worn him out and now, realizing that everything was still on the right path, he felt at peace.

One question still tugged at the back of his mind, though. _Why is this such a struggle? Why does this sap so much energy out of me while filling me with such happiness when I hear good news? Why do I care so much?_

The part of John that was desperately unspoken finally raised its voice. _Because you're in love with him, you bloody idiot twat._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is so much going on this chapter. This is actually the scene that I was most inspired to get to when I started the fic.  
> Pining John, advice from brother-in-law, and MYSTRADE! <3  
> P.S. Whoomp, there it is.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He felt around for his stash and grabbed at two or three patches.

Sherlock continued to berate himself for a few minutes after John left, oblivious. Although he was pulling himself apart, bit by bit, he sought John in his mind palace to calm him down and forced himself to listen to him. John had told him that it wouldn't help anything if he shut him out, and that resuming his natural composure would be best. Sherlock couldn't hold the image of John for long, for an undeniable sense of guilt set in. Sherlock let him slip away and slowly opened his wet eyes. The real John was nowhere to be seen, of course, and it took all the strength in Sherlock's reserves not to panic once more. He brought himself to the couch as he breathed in and out, composing himself. His legs were slightly trembling so he laid himself out in an attempt to relax. He stretched his back painfully and took more breaths. He turned his sore eyes to the pattern on the wall. It made him feel at home, which is what he needed. With one final sigh, he forced his thoughts to be less abusive. He knew he needed to make sense of the situation.

 _I need to observe, not just see. I need to make sense of this. I need… my nicotine patches._ Sherlock arched his back and slipped his hand under the couch cushion. He felt around for his stash and grabbed at two or three patches. He yanked them from the cushion and raised them to the light. He looked at them as if they were saviors, peeling off the backing of each one slowly before applying them to the inside of his right arm. He pressed them in and closed his eyes. He waited a few minutes before he felt the familiar sensation. 

The man situated himself comfortably into his mind palace, no longer throwing books and files around. He'd replaced everything that was broken and removed the shoe scuffs from the hallways. He tried to keep John out of it, for the moment. However, if the man's concerned eyes did come into view, he tried to shroud them in adoration - an image which he had plenty of. Sherlock settled in for a good think, his thoughts steeping like tea.

 _John Watson… He's loyal and compassionate. He's brave and quick. He's forgiving and sly. He's saved so many lives, including mine. He's a great man and he deserves so much more than he's given. A lot of people are like that, really. Even Anderson._ Sherlock scoffed to himself.

_No, not Anderson. He doesn't deserve our cake, he'll lower its IQ as soon as he eats it. Alright. Back to John. John. John is a wonderful, honorable man… which is why I can't stand to see him be dragged into a life like this. I know he enjoys going on cases, but if he ever was hurt more than a few bangs and scrapes, I'd never forgive myself._

Sherlock breathed and pressed the patch harder into his arm, _He's seen too much pain already. He fixed up all those soldiers, saw his friends die… And then he was shot. He must have thought it all over, then. But it wasn't. He had to live with the PTSD and the pain from the shot. He developed the limp and became colder towards people. But then I found him. And I pushed him back into a life of gunshots and blood and bodies. However…_ A memory flashed into Sherlock's mind. The night he and John met, Sherlock had told come back into the flat and asked John if he would like to see more pain and danger. John had responded with, "Oh, God yes."

_He likes it. He wants to live this life. He's attracted to danger. Which is what I assumed he meant when he said he was attracted to me. But he told me clearly, firmly, that it was who I was._

The man transitioned into reflecting himself. _Who am I? I'm… I'm the world's only consulting detective. I'm a stubborn smart arse who likes to show off. I'm a genius who tends to rub people up the wrong way. I'm someone who doesn't really understand normal relationships, and by concept, society and social cues. I solve crimes. Well, originally, I wanted to be a pirate._

He traced back to his roots. _Mother… Father… Mycroft… Our home._ Sherlock purposefully didn't add his other brother to that list. He didn't want to think of that at the moment. Instead, he went back through his timeline and tried to figure out when he started being… Well, _him_.

_From the start, I wasn't like the other children. Both my family and the other kids made that clear.They'd ask me to play and I'd say I'd rather read. They would show me pictures of cars while I showed them pictures of bacteria. I was very smart. Rather irritating, too. That pushed people away. Who wants to hang around an eight-year-old that's smarter than them? Even my teachers were fed up with me by the end of the year. The first day of school, I'd wow them… but word travels quickly when you have an English elementary schooler who can recite the National Anthem of Russia and wants to prove that he can. I became talk of the school, and every teacher dreaded having me in class the next year. Nobody liked me, but the students didn't tease me like I saw them tease the other children. They just avoided me. So I sought solace in fantasy books, science, dancing… Even the forest in the back of our house. It was alright, for a while. Loneliness didn't seem like a problem. Of course, I had Redbeard._

The memory of Redbeard caused a very certain part of Sherlock's mind to darken. He pushed on. _He was a good dog. A great dog. But all things end. His death hit me with such force that Mycroft had to swoop in and give me the talk I'd never forget. He told me that in the field of science, that which I was interested in, death was crucial. He said that caring in general wouldn't be helpful to me, and that getting involved in relationships would just cause me heartache. I knew he was right and remembered the advice, but that didn't make it hurt less. I just became even more isolated after that._

_Once I became a teenager, my distance from the other students was sort of a given. Only the very adventurous approached me and spoke to me. Of course, I pushed them all away. Pretty girls would giggle and dare each other to ask me things such like if I fancied them, but I was never interested. Moreover, when everyone else around me seemed to go through puberty, I had yet to. My body changed, but the things the boys in class spoke of never intrigued me. It all seemed rather pointless and gross._

Sherlock then recounted an embarrassing memory. _However, I finally understood why all of those boys spent so much time leaving class to go to the bathroom when I discovered that bloody military magazine. I was browsing the library and people-watching, as I would. Once I left, I found a little newspaper stand outside and a magazine caught my eye. There was a young man on the front with tattoos and cargo pants, partially covered in mud. Something built up in me, and I deduced myself enough from sex-education class that I was feeling aroused. I didn't purchase it that day, but the next. I told the woman at the stand that I wanted to be in the military when I grew up. She looked at me skeptically, as if a lanky pale boy would want to be a soldier. She sold it to me anyway. I took it home and flipped through it, getting more heated. Commence first wank. Simple enough, these continued about once or twice a month. It was enough to keep me sane, but it was a borderline necessity, only to be indulged in when I really needed it. Other than that, nothing else affected me. That kept the girls away, which was helpful. I could focus on my studies and outside passions, such as chemistry. Then came university._

This was the part of Sherlock's life that got a tad more complicated. He knew he had to recount it if he wanted to make it to that night, as painful as it was. _Mycroft had set me up perfectly for uni. I was just the right type of brainiac for all of my courses, and I pushed myself to study even harder. No longer did I have to endure classes I wasn't interested in. Chemistry, biology, medicine, math, anatomy - all the proper classes to become skilled in the realm of crime. The same things occurred. Women pursued me, but I always turned them away. I hadn't kissed anyone, or slept with anyone, and that was the way I liked it. Eventually my roommate got used to this strangeness and tried to figure me out, rather than ignore me. One day, he told me that his girlfriend was discussing other sexualities in her diversity club and he overheard something that sounded like me. He told me that there were identities called aromanticism and asexuality. I felt relieved to know that my inability to be sexually or romantically attracted to anyone wasn't a mistake in my chemistry. Upon further research, I found that there was plenty of fluctuation in both of them. That explained the military kink and the fleeting crush I had on a boy named Victor. Other than those, though, I was completed isolated from the realm of relationships. And then it happened._

Brows furrowed in discomfort, Sherlock recounted the memory he should have deleted. _I suppose it wasn't much, compared to other stories, but it was enough to assure me of my incompetence. It was getting late in the university library when one of the volunteers decided to lock up late. She kept me there and talked to me. I could tell she had impure intentions based on the look in her eyes. I won't ever forget it. She made advances on me and pushed me up against the bookshelves. She rubbed me through my clothes. Luckily, I didn't react. I somehow got out of it and left, never to speak of it to anyone. I didn't see her around as often. That event in itself caused me to never understand how someone else could get another person off. Their touch just must have been so cold, so wrong. Fortunately, it only took a few years for me to resume my very seldom masturbation habits. The event just made colder, if that were possible._

_I graduated and tried to find ways to exhibit my knowledge and scientific prowess. I worked as scientist's interns and realized that the field I chose was harder to work in than I had anticipated. Mycroft was fairly well along in his government position, and I was still trying to get involved in working with the police. For a year or so in my late twenties, I don't know what happened. I shut down my functions and started experimenting with drugs. I had the whole world in my mind, so why wouldn't I try to find something another? I indulged in smoking and tried heroin. It got bad. The darkest part of my life._

His memory sighed in relief once he moved onto the next bit. _Then Lestrade found me, strung out in an alleyway, and cleaned me up. He must have noticed how my mind worked once I was sober because he got to know Mycroft and I fairly well. He was a friend of the family before he offered me a position in working with him and Scotland Yard. St. Bart's hospital became my safe haven and Lestrade was my first real friend. Albeit, we got rather close, but I suppose he was working on getting to my brother while he befriended me. It was all fine and I began to revel once more in my intelligence. It helped to put it to use in aiding Lestrade, thus leading me to creating the job of consulting detective. A few years of that, and that handsome soldier walked into my life. The rest falls into place as I know perfectly well._

_That leads me to this past week. Of everything that's happened, the most important discovery has been my connection to John. I constantly question my influence on his life, but I know that if he hadn't found me, he'd be stuck in a rut of post-war depression. At least I can give him that. I can give him somewhere to come home to and someone to talk to._

Sherlock sat up, slowly, his narration having helped calm him down. _This is the life that I've chosen, and by consequence, what he's chosen. He's free to walk away at any second. I'm sure he would, too, if not for this strange attraction to me. I know that he finds me brilliant and visually appealing, but my heart is anything but noble. I'm not a hero, like him. I've had a fantastic road, a very ingenious one, but it hasn't been without great loss. I pushed everyone away and obtained the label as "pretentious arsehole." …But John accepts that. Actually, he sort of has to - he's a bit of an arse, as well. He's just as snappy and rude as me. He has his bad days. But he's a good man, and I'm just a great one._

Placing one hand on his knee, Sherlock pulled the hem of John's shirt up to his nose and smelled it. He found comfort in the smell and decided to face his mistakes for the chance to smell that once again. He was going to text John and ask him to come back so he could apologize formally. Sherlock stood from the couch, his heavy chest feeling light with his discovery. He wasn't going to turn away from John. Seemed he needed Sherlock just as he needed John. Their lives were messy, but he was the only man Sherlock would try to sort it out for. 

As much as Sherlock didn't understand relationships and the rules of them, he and John seemed to break normality often, so a text around eleven at night wouldn't be a problem. Sherlock calmly retrieved his phone from its spot nestled between books on the living room table and retreated into his room to change. He didn't want to take off of John's shirt, but he needed to feel like himself. He quickly threw on a dressing gown to match his pajamas and bounced back onto the couch. 

He swiped his thumb across his phone and sent a text out before he could regret it. _Come home. - SH_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal take on the timeline of Sherlock's life.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John was eyeing him as if whatever hurdle he was about to jump, he'd jump it with him.

A return text came in a few minutes later. Sherlock immediately perked up, eager to see that John was safe and in a position to talk to him. 

_Alright. You ok? - JW_

Sherlock beamed at his phone, resisting the urge to call John out on his spelling. _I think so. I'll apologize properly when you get back to the flat. - SH_

_Looking forward to it. - JW_

_Where did you go? - SH_

_Out. - JW_

_Out where? - SH_

_Just out. - JW_

_You're not making this apology come any faster, John. - SH_

_Fine. I went to a motel. - JW_

The texts came a half a minute or so apart. John never had been extremely skilled at texting, but Sherlock appreciated how he tried. He was waiting to prove his sentiment for when he could see John and hear his voice, so he added his usual snark to his texts. He was sure John understood that as a sign of affection. He at least hoped he did, by this point. 

John's whereabouts irritated Sherlock. _Were you planning on coming back? - SH_

_I didn't know. I just needed some air. - JW_

* * *

John took a break from texting to thank the woman behind the desk, who was now dozing lightly. He felt rude for waking her, and she snapped at him when he did, asking why he bloody went to a bloody hotel if he was only going to bloody stay for a bloody hour. He shrugged and disappeared out the door. The expense of the night was worth it for the realization he had come to, and he hailed a cab now, jittery with the newfound information.

His revelation went like this: He jolted when his mind spouted off the phrase, his stomach immediately coiling. His face reddened and he sat up, resisting the urge to touch his heart dramatically. He stood from the bed and paced a few times, repeating the exact words in his head. It made too much sense for him to cast it off, and instead of letting the news darken his hopes, he became rather giddy.

He bounced on his toes on the sidewalk now, shooting a response to Sherlock's question of where he was. As soon as Sherlock had sent him the first text, he burst out of the motel room. By that point, he was freaking out and eager to return home and see Sherlock, so the command was well received. He climbed into the cab now and gave the address. He continued to react to the realization, repeating the facts and events in his head to solidify his own argument.

_I'm in love with Sherlock? Oh, my god. I am. I'm sodding head over heels in love with him. That's why I am so compliant, that's why I always want to protect him. That's why this is all so important to me. Because he's the person I've been waiting for. Okay, that sounds cheesy, but it's true. I'd always assumed one of my girlfriends would end up being that sort of awe-inspiring, magnificent, dangerously serious love… but Sherlock makes so much more sense. I've saved his life, as he's saved mine. He's bloody irritating but I put up with him. He makes me want to curse him out and compliment his genius at the same time. Besides, I'm the most comfortable with him. God, this is fantastic!_

Sherlock sent a text. _Are you on your way? - SH_

 _Yeah. - JW_ John sent back. Of all the times Sherlock had played the game with him, he played his own now, texting him normally as if nothing had changed. Of course, with this excitement came panic.

_Wait, I'm in love with Sherlock. He's not good at love. He doesn't know anything about it, except that it's different from obsession. He probably doesn't even love me back. Probably thinks - No, we're not doing this again. Mycroft said he cared for me more than anyone. He himself even told me that he cared for me and that I was a "handsome bugger." Caring is another name for love, isn't it? Yes, it is. Okay. So he feels something. How could he not? All of that happened this week - that has to be a sign. God, I'm in love with Sherlock. What a fucking punch in the face. I've fallen for the most stubborn man in London. Even his brother has found someone to love him. I must be like Mycroft's Greg. Trying to win him over, finally cracking him. Well, they ended up happy, I suppose, so maybe it'll be all fine._

John was smiling like an idiot. The next text only made it wider. 

_Good. - SH_

* * *

Sherlock was thinking of how he could explain to John what had happened when the next text came in. His heart fluttered excitedly and he sent back a simple sign of affection. John texted back quickly.

_What did you do while I was gone? - JW_

_Recalled my entire life story. - SH_

_Care to recall it to me, sometime? - JW_

_Sometime. - SH_

John took longer to respond.

_John? - SH_

_Jesus Sherlock, give me some time to think of a creative text. - JW_

_As you wish. This enough time? - SH_ Sherlock had sent that text a solid six minutes after the last one. He was proud of himself for holding out so long.

"Yes, that's just about right." John said, his form coming into view through the doorway. He slid his phone into his pocket and smiled strangely.

Not knowing what it meant, Sherlock dropped his phone to the couch and stood. Approaching him slowly, Sherlock braced himself to work things out. He needed to apologize as well as face the bull head on, as it were. Sherlock was going to talk about their relationship, as confusing as it was for them. But he wasn't afraid because of the how John looked now. John was eyeing him as if whatever hurdle he was about to jump, he'd jump it with him. It was extremely comforting.

* * *

Upon seeing him with the realization still fresh in his mind, John admired Sherlock in a new light. He was coming toward him now, his dress robe tied tight over his solid chest, John's shirt peeking out in a maroon triangle. His eyes were red and puffy but as dazzling as ever and his curled hair was mussed. His face was back to its usual pale complexion, but a slight flush graced his prominent nose. He looked concerned and confused, his innocence and humanity a refreshing change from his contorted, anguished countenance from an hour previous. John was completely smitten, lost to the beauty of the man. His eyes traveled from his face to his chest, his mouth slightly agape in wonder.

John was now allowed to be as infatuated as he wanted, for it was justified. He compared Sherlock to the night sky in his mind, the stereotypical connotations of new love inspiring him. He was the moon and stars, a vast, mysterious expanse, complete with swirling galaxies and colorful nebulas. His eyes were bright like the trails of shooting stars, while his alabaster skin was pure like reflective moon dust. He always glowed, humming with a sort of high-frequency electric buzz. John was attracted it to it purely because it was Sherlock, but he found himself wishing now to wrap his arms around his thin waist to feel this brilliant vibration, if no other reason. John laughed at himself, _Of course there are other reasons._

Sherlock's popped brow hid under his messy bangs. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

John's confidence faltered. He couldn't tell him. Not yet, at least. He needed to play the game and work with Sherlock on his own terms. John thought that if Sherlock felt the same, he needed to wait until they'd established a firm basis for their relationship before he said anything. If he didn't, well then… Pining would do just fine, as long as it meant he got to stay with him. "No reason," John lied. "I was just worried. You - you really scared me, earlier."

John left the doorway, walked to the kitchen, and found himself yawning. He turned his head away, suddenly shy, but he resumed speaking anyway. "Tea?"

"Yes, thank you. Well, I'm sorry about that."

John felt his hairs stand up when he noted Sherlock's presence had moved behind him. He was standing close. "What even happened?"

"Well…" Sherlock dropped his gaze. John was once again lost in his expression. John was happy to have found a peaceful compromise for his thoughts, since the only complaint he had at the moment was to see where they stood. 

 _Slowly,_ he told himself. _If that had been more of a breakup and less of a misunderstanding, this would be tense. I mean, it probably is for him. I'm just as jolly as a fucking bumblebee over here._

John attempted to remind him as he reached for the tea tin. "You were pretty rude, but it soon turned into a sort of mental breakdown. Oh, sorry, I probably shouldn't have used those words. I'm… going to shut up now. You're free to talk." _Way to go, Watson._

Sherlock came closer and reached over him, taking the tin from the pantry easily. John tried not to stare as his face was only inches above his. He then moved by John to fill the kettle. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm not always a machine."

"I know that."

He set the kettle on the stove and lit it. He seemed to need to busy himself as he spoke, and John fought the urge to steady his hands with his own. "I was worried about… things. Things that I might not be able to give you."

"Oh." _This sounds like the beginning of a relationship talk. Is that what's happening?_

John locked his eyes on Sherlock's and tried his best to replicate an understanding smile, despite the nervous bubbling sensation in his stomach.

"I think it's obvious to both of us that things have been changing in the past week."

"Yes, they have." _Oh, my God - it_ is _that talk. …Shit. This might actually work out._

Sherlock opened the cupboards and retrieved two teacups and two saucers. He set them down, adjacent on the kitchen table. He ruffled his hair, his eyes darting from the tea to John. John just watched in fascination.

"I want to talk about those changes."

 _Fucking shit,_ John thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John texting while John is contemplating his newly realized love is too much to handle.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a fleeting moment, the men were invincible.

The men poured themselves some tea and moved to sit in their chairs. There was no way anything could escape them now, they were all in. John spoke.

"I suppose we can just start from when Mrs. Hudson called out our one-year mark."

"Yes. Your thoughts on that?" Sherlock was proud of himself for being so forward about it. He hadn't been brutally honest to John in months, and although nothing he had to say would be necessarily hurtful, he decided not to play the game. _We're going to be okay._

John sipped his tea, but it was too hot. He made a face before answering. "I was surprised that we'd lasted that long, actually. It got me thinking of the first night we met, and how I had asked you out."

"I thought of that, too. I reminded myself of how I treated you." Sherlock sipped his own tea. "I suppose the next bit should be after the case, when you told me you were attracted to me."

"Right. I was. I am. Are you… to me?" John seemed to struggle with the words, but Sherlock helped him out with a meek smile.

"Yes." John's face lit up. Sherlock smiled widely but tried to compose himself. "Rather ardently, actually."

"I have a question then. When you said you'd try harder, what specifically did you mean you were going to try at?"

"I wanted to try being more normal. Accepting of your feelings, accepting of my feelings. I wanted to try to understand social cues and relationships. I wanted to try to work out ours, specifically. In all honesty, by this point, I thought we were a couple."

John chuckled, "Really? Wow. That's… actually what I thought you meant by it. I got something right, for once."

"What do you mean?" 

"Well, I assumed that what you meant by 'trying' was just as you said. That you would try and work out a sort of… romantic relationship with me. Albeit, this realization came a bit late. I didn't know you thought we were a couple."

"Social formality wise, I did. By society's principles, how often we spent time together, carrying out activities like eating together - I assumed we were. And you had stopped dating. Was I mistaken?"

"No, no, that sounds about right. I just never thought you were so aware of your own feelings. I constantly question if you like me at all."

Sherlock's stomach dropped. _For God's sakes, John, you're the paragon of importance to me!_ "Well, don't question it. I do. I know I make that hard to understand, but I do."

"Alright, good. …Then what did you mean by 'You'll never be good enough?' Just tonight, before I left."

The detective began to panic once again. "I said that?"

"Yes. Well, you were sort of muttering it - cutting yourself off. Mycroft said it must have been a miscommunication."

"You talked to my brother?"

"I called Lestrade at the motel and he answered. He gave me some sound advice. But anyway, did you mean it?"

"I… I wasn't talking about you."

"What?"

 _Just say it. The set up is perfect, now just execute._ "I was talking about me. That's why I wanted to apologize. I was going crazy, as it were, because I realized that you must want a normal life from me and I won't be able to give you that… as a flatmate or something more. I hated myself so much for having dragged you down that the truth was killing me. I know that I'll never be good enough for you. I was swearing at myself. I must have spoken some of the insults out loud. You must have heard them."

John's face was appalled as if he didn't believe a word of it. "Sherlock - "

"But I managed to remind myself that you chose this dangerous life. I know I can be a bit of a cock, a tremendous one, at that, so I'd always assumed it'd just push you away, like it did everyone else."

"Are you serious right now? _You_ think you're not good enough for _me?"_

"Yes, John. But you thought the same, you always question your importance to me." _Why does he look so confused?_

"God, so we're basically just two arseholes who think they're not good enough for each other? How fucking ridiculous is that?"

Sherlock managed a nervous laugh. He had lost interest in his tea by this point and he set it on the arm of his arm. He put his palms together and brought them up to his chin. He leaned forward and said, "John. You must know that you are the only person I've ever truly cared for. As bad at it as I am, I feel you ought to know that that is something I never thought I'd be capable of. You're a very honorable man and I'm proud to know you."

* * *

John's heart was swelling at the sincerity in Sherlock's voice. He was genuinely surprised but he believed every word of it. "Thanks, Sherlock. Truly. But I still can't believe you don't think you can compare to me. You're bloody brilliant! You are a certified genius and a helluva detective. You're unlike anyone I've ever known. You're fantastic." _You're magnificent and I love you. I love you so goddamn much._

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. He looked as though he'd just won the World Cup. His eyes had gone funny and he was smiling with those same lines streaking down his cheeks. "Thank you. I guess this means we're not the shits we think we are?"

"Not to each other, at least."

It was silent for a moment before John directed the conversation back to the status of their relationship. "So you thought we were a couple, and I thought we were a couple, but neither of us said anything to confirm it?"

"For God's sakes, we're bad at this."

"But it works… for us. I think. Does this mean that we _are_ a couple? Err… dating? Or just… friends?" John held his breath. This was the moment.

"I think it's safe to assume that we're more than just flatmates."

"What, like super best friends?"

"I'm your best friend?"

John was surprised once more. "Of course… Of course you are."

"And you're mine." Sherlock's voice dipped low at the end of that sentence.

"Alright. That's settled. So… best friends who live with each other, stay up until midnight drinking tea, and solve cases; who are also attracted to each other, believe they aren't good enough for the other, and have been secretly assuming they've been dating for the better part of a week. What the hell do we call that?" _Fucking dangerous love, that's what._

"Something else, for sure. I think that everything will fall into place now that we've had this talk. Maybe after a good night's rest, we'll understand better."

"…This has been really great. I'm definitely sorry everything was so unspoken for a while."

"I concur. Shall we leave it at that?"

"Yes." John was satisfied. He felt light and accepted and loved. He smiled at Sherlock brightly.

"Are you tired?"

"Yes, sort of. It's been an emotionally draining night."

* * *

Sherlock smiled understandably. He stood from the chair and took his tea back to the kitchen. He didn't feel like sleeping, but he felt as if he were asleep, now that he was more at peace. "Well, I'm not going to bed for a while, as much as I'm worn down." Sherlock moved back towards the living room and stopped behind John's chair. He placed both hands on John's shoulders. "You can go to bed, if you want."

He felt John tense at the touch, but he pressed himself up into it as he spoke. "I'm fine right here. I think I'm going to read for a bit." 

"Alright." _John, we did it. We finally worked it out._

* * *

After a bit of rustling and situating, the men found themselves sitting silently in the living room once again. The weight of everything that had happened that night left them both in shock, and the strangely accepting talk seemed to patch things up. For a fleeting moment, the men were invincible. They were content.

John was still reveling in his realization, while Sherlock was especially proud of himself for having worked it out. 

Sherlock sat in his chair, polishing his violin. He swept a flannel over the shiny surface and moved gracefully over every curve. He worked on the bowstring as well. His mind palace was calm and humming pleasantly. Although the relationship talk had left the air between them light and understood, Sherlock still felt a spark of excitement when he caught John's eyes.

John was reading a book in his chair, his legs crossed. He couldn't have asked for a better relationship talk. He smiled to himself as he tried to soak in the words on the pages, but his mind kept drifting to the strange simplicity of their new relationship. Sherlock had just labeled it as "Something else," which was probably the most accurate. 

Of course, there was still something going unsaid. The men had almost spoken _too_ maturely. They didn't officially call out what was to happen next, but only recalled what had already happened. They didn't discuss the physicality of the relationship, the publicity, or the seriousness of it. The men lied to themselves that everything was fine, although the talk had cleared both their minds out.

The strange tension came as it often did: laced under the silence. John returned to feeling antsy and Sherlock doubted the validity of both of their words. No longer did they expect the other to play the game, hide his feelings, or assume something of the other - but it was only a matter of time before the mature facade dropped and John and Sherlock resumed their schoolboy-like gazes.

John would dart his eyes up from his book and meet Sherlock's, a flash of emerald on top of snow. He felt guilty and dropped them to his lap once more. He would do it again and again, each time berating himself internally for feeling so ashamed. He told himself that he must have jumped to the conclusion of love too quickly, thus feeling like he was given false signals. He pushed that second-guessing away and attempted to reread the same sentence he had been for the past few minutes. Something must have happened when his gaze was down because when he brought it back up, Sherlock just stared blankly ahead, unblinking. John shook his head and passed it off as some mind-palace searching. 

* * *

Sherlock had seen something in John's face that he was unfamiliar with. He'd stored every one of John's expressions, and this one was new. He looked smitten and bashful, but when he dropped his gaze, his face turned cold and ashamed. Sherlock contemplated this.

_Why would he be ashamed of looking at me? Is he afraid of something? Or is it that he's feeling something else? Something else… That's what we are. We're something else._

He felt a strange chill run through his spine when John rolled his neck. There was still something there, something that Sherlock didn't understand. _But we worked everything out. We spoke of everything. What am I missing? I've told him how I feel about him, and he's told me. What am I missing? What am I_ missing? _Am I not being truthful to myself? Am I in love with him or something?_

It hit him like a stray baseball. It flew completely out of left field and struck Sherlock right in the gut, and as he crumpled backwards and into the stands, he wondered why he hadn't seen it coming earlier. His gaze was pulled away from John's form and just to the right of him, where it settled in shock. He didn't blink. The bruise from the baseball was churning his insides, and Sherlock began to understand.

_For God's sakes, I'm in love with him. Look at me now, Mycroft - I've gotten involved! I've let the only person into my life affect me to the point of insanity. Wait, but this doesn't make sense, I'm not supposed to understand love. How can that be? I thought it was fake, something holiday card companies slapped around to make money?_

Sherlock was oblivious to the fact that John had noticed and was choosing to ignore it. _No, it's something else. It's that strange tension I always feel, it's those inappropriate fantasies I have about him. It's why I think he's worth so much more than me. It's why I care so much for his safety and why he's the only man I've ever put this much effort into understanding. God, of course. Of course, of course, of course I'm in love with him. He's John. He's my John. ...God, what a predicament. Now I have to deal with this and its consequences._

"Sherlock, Sherlock - you alright?" John's voice snapped him out of his trance. Finding his eyes once again, Sherlock's heart fluttered. _Oh, this is actually happening. We're going to happen. I'm going to be with the man I love._

"Yeah, I just…"

John set his book down. "It's almost one. I think we should go to bed."

_Wait, we're already going to bed? John, I'm not ready -_

"Even detectives need sleep, Sherlock. You're starting to look frazzled."

_Oh, he means sleep._

"Sherlock?"

"Right. Of course. I think you're sleep, we both need right."

"What?" John looked at Sherlock with a curious expression as he raised himself from his chair and walked slowly across the living room. Sherlock had stood without realizing it, and was now meeting John half way in the center.

"I need to get to my room." Sherlock turned his body inward so his chest brushed John's shoulder as he passed.

"Okay."

* * *

 _Yeah, things are definitely still weird. So much for trying to make sense of it all. He's acting strange again._ John watched as Sherlock pushed past him. Once the man's back faced him, his eyes dropped from Sherlock's dark curls to his prominent shoulder blades. He called after him, unwilling to let him go just yet. "You sure you're alright?"

"Yes, John."

Sherlock continued on towards his bedroom as he spoke. Something in John made him take a few steps after him and reach for his left arm as it swung back. He grasped Sherlock by the wrist and pulled firmly. Sherlock spun towards him and was able to briefly cast John a curious eye before the soldier had pushed himself closer and raised himself on his toes, at which he moved his head up towards Sherlock's with closed eyes and met Sherlock's mouth with soft compression. His lips were slightly parted due to his surprise, and while the kiss was fleeting, John felt his stomach drop upon feeling the plush thickness of them. He released Sherlock's wrist, pulled away quickly, and dropped back to the flats of his feet.

"Well, goodnight then," he said as he briskly made his way across the flat and up the stairs leading to his bedroom.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life moves fast, motherfuckers!


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories of the previous night flooded back to him.

John felt the warmth of his own ankles as he roused from sleep, his comforter drawn up to his face and coating him in serenity. He took a few seconds to open his eyes as he rustled beneath the blankets. His focus refined on his closet. He pulled his arms from beneath the blanket and stretched them. John rolled his neck and pushed himself up onto his elbows. He felt content with the sleep he'd gotten, it seemed that the day he had before was far too long.

 _I feel like something important happened yesterday…_ John shrugged to himself and raised himself from the bed. He nestled his feet into his slippers and reached for his bedside coat to add over his pajama jumper. It was a chilly morning, the February bite catching the remnants of winter.

The doctor moseyed around his room, checking out the windows and picking up stray clothes. He dusted off his bedside nightstand and made his bed. He crossed back and caught his reflection in the mirror. He was smug, his thin lips pulled into a small grin. He fixed his hair and smoothed his eyebrows down. Looking at himself now, noticing how happy he looked, he began to question what had happened. He must have been tired when he went to bed, for he didn't remember his dreams and he slept soundly.

John moved to exit his bedroom. _Probably something to do with Sherlock._

Memories of the night previous flooded back to him as his brain had said Sherlock's name, but they crashed like erratic waves, out of order and threatening. John stood, paralyzed, as he remembered. _I love Sherlock. Sherlock and I are dating?! Sort of… We're "something else." And there was a cake and a motel. Oh, and Mycroft was there. No, wait, I just called him. … Oh, God - that wanking thing outside the bathroom…_

His hands found his pockets and he continued out of his bedroom and down the stairs as he recounted in disbelief the busy night. He must have been drained by the time he finally slept. Images of Sherlock looking at him with disappointment clashed with those of a laughing detective, batter on his nose. John remembered the exact feeling in his gut he'd discovered when he came to that bloody realization.

 _Is this real life?_ John didn't take in his surroundings as he mindlessly sat himself in his chair. He didn't see the bookshelf, the wallpaper, the tea Sherlock had lain out, or the man himself. He was switching from skeptical to excited as he steeped in his memories.

The flat was humming with tension and romantic energy and it only increased as John remembered everything from the night previous and, by consequence, the point in which he and Sherlock were at currently. Once his mind had caught him up on nearly everything, he focused his eyes on his hands.

With furrowed brows, John questioned that last bit he was missing. Something else had happened.

"John," Sherlock said, suddenly appearing beside him.

The man raised his face toward the sound of his name, "Hm?" But his question was trapped behind his lips as Sherlock bent forward and pressed his own to them, lingering a moment before pulling away.

 _Oh!_ John looked up at the man in surprise, finally remembering what he'd been missing.

Sherlock contemplated the kiss, pressing two fingers to his lips. "Hm, interesting."

"Wh-what?"

"I needed to get you back for last night. You look confused."

"A bit, yeah."

* * *

Sherlock moved around John to sit adjacent him in his own chair. He had also experienced the memory loss from the previous night since he'd been so emotionally drained by the end of it. John had kissed him gently and meandered off, leaving Sherlock to steep in his own realization. Only minutes before John had done so, Sherlock had deduced that he was in love with man, so his actions did little to help his sanity. He stood for in shock for a few minutes before he retreated to his room and slept soundly. His last conscious thought had been how he must get John back in the morning.

 _Good morning, prick. How dare you just kiss me and disappear?_ "Do you need a moment to collect yourself?"

"What, no, I just - wow. Okay. So I _kissed_ you last night, I guess."

"Do you not remember?"

"It took me a while to recount certain events, which makes sense, considering all that happened."

John smirked at him, Sherlock's mouth pulling itself into the same shape unconsciously. He clasped his hands. "It was a rather busy night."

"Yeah."

"Yes, well, you did… do that thing. And then you went to bed, leaving me wondering." Sherlock focused on the stack of books beside John's left arm to keep himself from embarrassing himself.

A nervous chuckle arose from John's smile, "Why?"

"No, you answer me first, John Watson. Why did you do it?" _Because if it was out of boredom, I swear…_

Watson cleared his throat. "I wanted to."

 _Oh._ "That's justified." He met John's gaze.

"And now you. Why was it so shocking? It was just a kiss." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. He looked as though he was trying to be cool, but he was failing.

 _You ignorant bastard, that was our_ first _kiss. And mine._ "Because we hadn't discussed it."

John's smirk fell, "God, I'm sorry! You must not have liked that - Jesus, I'm sorry, Sherlock." He looked genuinely upset and it caused adoration to course through Sherlock's veins like heroin.

Sherlock kept his face calm as he watched the man. "No, no - it was fine."

"Oh. Well, then good. I didn't know if it was allowed, but I did it anyway. So, sorry for that, at least."

 _Allowed? What is this, primary school?_ "John."

"Yes?"

Sherlock swallowed, his lips suddenly heavy. "Before last night… I'd never been kissed." 

* * *

The thought that John was the only person to ever kiss Sherlock was too much to handle, and it seemed that Sherlock felt the same. Sherlock pulled his eyes away and tightened his legs. The faintest of pinks spread over his cheekbones. John was captivated. _Christ, Sherlock, you need to not do that thing where you look like that. It's unhelpful. And don't go about telling me that I was your first kiss. That's too bloody perfect._ "Oh. Heh. I hope it lived up to your expectations."

"Kissing is weird."

"Sorry." _Shit. No more, then?_

Meeting his gaze once again, Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Not your fault, I just don't know anything about it. It's obvious enough _why_ people do it, but I never thought there'd be a reason for _me_ to do it."

"…And you have a reason now?"

"Clearly."

"What do you mean you don't know anything about it? Do you just think you'd be rubbish at it?" _Trust me, love, you're fantastic._ John had found himself calling Sherlock "love" in his head as a little reminder of what he'd finally realized. He wouldn't forget something as important, but he needed to say it in his head if he was ever going to say it out loud. It was eating him apart with each passing second, loving Sherlock, but things were moving quickly and he wasn't afraid of never having the chance to confess anymore.

"I don't know. What do you think?" 

John pretended he was thinking deeply. _I think I'm too lucky for my own good. I think that I'm still stuck in a dream. I think if you said it was okay, I'd be kissing you more right now. I think your lips are fucking incredible and I'm surprised they've never been kissed before me. In fact, I have trouble comprehending that, as well as many other things. How did you come to be, Sherlock Holmes? How did it come to be that I'm sitting here, talking to you about kissing? All I need to do to make this a movie moment is say "We should practice sometime."_

He spoke nonchalantly. "It was fine. I mean… we could practice, if you want." _John Watson, you little shit._

Sherlock shrugged. "Alright."

"Alright?"

"It wouldn't hurt. It would be smart to, anyway. For future… reference." Sherlock rose from his chair and smoothed down the creases in his dress robe. He moved to the couch and sat himself.

 _I swear to God, a teenage girl wrote my life._ "You're not kidding?"

"No. Get over here." 

John stood up cautiously, as if he was afraid Sherlock would proclaim it all a joke any second. But Sherlock's eyes never left John's, and they even swept down to his mouth when he came closer. John swallowed and licked his lips, pulling the bottom one in with his tongue and leaving it to stretch into a smirk. Sherlock motioned him to sit on beside him on the couch and a breathy laugh escaped John. "Wow. Okay. This is new."

He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who was still looking at him as if he were waiting for something. John sat beside him and squinted his eyes. Sherlock bounced himself closer and turned himself in. He tilted his head down and knit his brows quizzically. Sherlock was now the one to laugh. "Alright, let's do it."

John fiddled with his hands nervously. He'd kissed so many people, and only now was he acting a mess. He didn't know if he was supposed to teach him or…? He rambled through his worry. "Okay… Well, first, you don't want to be too stiff - "

"Oh, shut up." And with that, Sherlock had pulled John in by the forearms and had met his lips.

It took a moment for John's head to stop spinning, but once it did, he let himself notice the plump softness of Sherlock's mouth with closed eyes. His lips were closed and rather taut, but John parted his slightly and moved his head a few inches to the right to feel the tingling from a different angle. Sherlock soon followed his lead, relaxing his lips and moving his head the opposite direction. John's hands traveled to his own thighs, but they itched to touch Sherlock. Sherlock's hands were moving from John's arms to his shoulders and up onto his neck. His hands dwarfed John's neck and he felt Sherlock trace small circles with his thumbs on John's jaw. John's mind went fuzzy as he noticed that Sherlock was trying to open his mouth and close it again to deepen the kiss. He didn't want to laugh at it, so he smiled instead. His mouth went tight and Sherlock accidentally kissed his teeth. John pulled back to widen the smile, Sherlock's hands gently sliding from his face. He flicked his eyes open and watched as Sherlock realized John's lips had left him. His eyes were closed and his face was pushed forward, lips slightly pursed. He looked extremely serene. John blessed his life once again and shifted himself onto the couch so he was leaning on his knees. Sherlock moved in sync, turning his body inward and lifting one leg onto the couch. He sipped it between John's legs, which John settled around.

This time, John bobbed his head in. He met Sherlock's mouth once again and his hands seemed to find a place at Sherlock's hips. He felt the man tense and he moved to pull back, but Sherlock just rolled his body into his touch and lifted his head to kiss him. John took that sign of consent to open his mouth and turn his head. Sherlock understood this as the correct way to deepen the kiss, and he did the same. John moved his lips and reveled in the dampness of Sherlock's. He wondered if he was alright to use tongue. After a few seconds of shifting, Sherlock's hips craning greedily to meet John's hands, he threw caution to the wind. He pushed his tongue forward and traced Sherlock's bottom lip gently. He waited for Sherlock to tell him no before he flicked it to the inside of his lip, pushing his tongue against Sherlock's bottom teeth.

* * *

Sherlock's mouth and face had gone hot at the initial contact, but as John's hands smoothed over his bones and guided him to lean backwards, the heat traveled down his neck and flushed across his torso. He let his body be gently forced back. Still attached at the lips, Sherlock's head hit a pillow at the arm of the couch. Sherlock was now running his hands over John's back and thighs, eager to touch every bit he could reach. John lifted himself from his knees and positioned himself better, his mouth greedily coming off and returning to Sherlock's. 

If the taste of John and the feel of his damp tongue exploring his mouth hadn't been causing Sherlock's brain to blank, he would have noted that this wasn't as bad as he'd thought. In fact, it was quite pleasant, and after John had touched every bit of his mouth with his tongue, Sherlock tried to move his own against it. John must have liked that, for he responded justly, moving himself so he was raised above Sherlock, one hand supporting his weight while the other still gripped Sherlock's side. Sherlock found that he needn't think of where everything was on John - he seemed to know after a few minutes. He pulled at John's bottom lip with his teeth, leaving it to slide out with a tender bounce. Sherlock indulged in snogging John and began teasing John with his teeth.

That was the change that made John hum a groan and move from Sherlock's mouth to his neck. Like he had in the dream, John began kissing and pulling at the skin between Sherlock's ear and his jaw. The detective turned his head and found that his own hand had been pushing at the couch's arm helplessly. His other moved around John's shoulder and up into his hair. John was crouched over him now, his knees woven between Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock felt the urge to buck his hips but John distracted him by sliding his attached hand under Sherlock's torso and onto his back. His other hand was turning Sherlock's face back by the cheek so he could find Sherlock's mouth. John's hand traveled from his face to Sherlock's hair. He pushed it under the pillow, Sherlock lifting his head properly. John lifted him closer to himself with his strong arm, squeezing him around the waist. Sherlock had never been so comforted.

John's other hand was still feeling his soft, dark curls. His hair was one of his most sensitive spots, and at the gentle caress, Sherlock made a plaintive noise. John froze in fear, but Sherlock assured him with his mouth once more. They were getting caught up in the kissing, and they continued to snog until John was almost swaying on his knees. However, his warmth and wet mouth left Sherlock empty as John pulled back. Sherlock felt the couch sag as his hands disappeared from him and John sat on his heels. Eyes still closed, Sherlock scrambled up the couch and tried to push himself up on his elbows. Finally regaining his view, John was looking at him and smiling.

"How was that?"

Sherlock tried to find his voice. _Incredible… Absolutely incredible…_ "Good."

"I have to go to work," John stood from the couch quickly.

"No, you don't." Sherlock already missed John's arms.

"No, I don't. But I am hungry for breakfast." John stretched his arms long and brought them down to fix his twisted coat and straighten out the bits of the shirt that peeked from it.

Sherlock sat up fully once he found his strength. John disappeared into the kitchen. Sherlock slapped a palm to his face. _For God's sakes, if that's what I've been missing..._

He sighed and let his head drip off the edge of the couch helplessly. Upside down, he closed his eyes and recounted the satisfying kissing he'd just indulged in. 

After a few minutes of rusting about in the kitchen, He swore he heard John whistling happily. He smiled to himself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just dedicated an entire chapter to Johnlock talking about and eventually participating in kissing. This is my life now.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'd always seemed so untouchable and inhuman, yet here he was with spindly legs and long arms and warm breath fluffing John's hair.

The rest of the day was just more kissing. Lestrade showed up around noon to take the cake to Anderson, and while his visit was short and pleasant, he swore there was something neither of the men were telling him. As soon as he disappeared, the kissing resumed. Kisses on the shell of the ear as John cooked toast, kisses on the forehead when Sherlock was reading Lestrade's curious texts, kisses on the mouth when the other left the room. They also had found that physicality in other ways wasn't off limits. Sherlock rested his legs on John on the couch during his morning update of his tobacco ash spreadsheet. John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist before he hip-checked him out of the way when he tried to get through the kitchen. They even slow danced when John told Sherlock he'd found a classic violin song he thought he'd like. Although Sherlock was a particularly good dancer, John wasn't, and the swaying embrace was short-lived, resulting in an apologetic kiss.

They were both smitten, completely head-over-heels aware of yet another change. Neither of them knew what to call it yet, but their "something else" was now just "something" and John and Sherlock took every opportunity they had to make the most of it. 

John was in awe of Sherlock, but his captivation was blessed reality once he realized that he was now allowed to show his adoration in ways he couldn't before. He nudged Sherlock, blew in his ear, and even raised himself on his toes to bite his shoulder. John expected to wake up from the dream, but Sherlock had pinched the chub of his cheek playfully when he was drinking tea and he was still awake. _I love this. I love all of this. I want nothing but this for the rest of my life._

Sherlock was surprised at how well he reacted to the constant touching. He liked kisses and hugs and even the purposeful pat of his bum when he passed John on his way to the bathroom. All of the ridiculous, affectionate things he never thought he'd partake in were taking his day by storm. He indulged in these and the simplicities, such as watching John blog for minutes on end, never pulling his gaze away. In fact, the thought of being able to get up and kiss that bastard was too great to ignore and Sherlock let himself. He just rose from his chair and did it. Within the inches that he pulled away from kissing John's cheek, John turned his face and met his mouth. Sherlock was the happiest he'd ever been and for once in his complicated life, he didn't try and figure out the solution. He just let it happen. 

Smiling to himself like a dope as he exited his bedroom, Sherlock found John on the couch now looking at his spreadsheet. "Tobacco ash… again…"

"Hey, I _know_ ash. Don't tell me I don't."

"I didn't say anything!"

"Right." Sherlock moved toward the couch and clambered over the arm. John gave him a curious look but was forced to shuffle forward as Sherlock crawled in behind him, his long legs bending at the knees on both sides of John. John leaned back and into him. Sherlock let his arms fall over John's shoulders so he could reach the computer. 

John had removed his jacket as the morning continued to heat up and he was wearing a beige jumper now, leaning up against Sherlock's blue dress-robed chest. 

Sherlock had the world in his arms and the rise and fall of his shoulders under his biceps made him feel spectacularly alive. The world, by consequence, rested his head backwards to feel the solidity of Sherlock's chest. He'd always seemed so untouchable and inhuman, yet here he was with spindly legs and long arms and warm breath fluffing John's hair. 

John took a moment in silence to feel Sherlock's body wrapped around him before he spoke. "So, what does all this mean?"

Remembering why he'd fallen for him in the first place with the addition of his genuine interest, Sherlock started. "This column," he pointed, "represents the different type of ash. It differentiates between the richer types that the men in my brother's club would smoke and a common brand that a teenager would find. This is the effect they have on the smoker, and this is how long the effect will last based on tolerance. So far I have collected about 230 types."

"236," John said. He turned his head to his right and looked Sherlock lovingly

* * *

 _God, I love you. I love you, John Watson. I love you and I want to stay like this until the day I die._ "Thank you."

"Sherlock."

"Hm?"

"As much as I'd like to stay here and learn about your ash and maybe even take a nap, I have to go to the bank."

"What, why?"

"…Because I want money?"

"I have money."

"Fine, but I want to check my own, at least."

Sherlock whined, "I don't want to move." He drew out the last word and pouted. 

John shuffled back into his shoulder. "Fine, but at five we're going to the bank."

"Good." Sherlock resumed typing away, John watching his hands curiously. 

It was a few minutes before Sherlock sagged his head forward and into John's hair. He was exasperated. _This collection of data isn't complete, but where to find more ash?_

* * *

John bit his lip, he hoped his hair smelled nice. "What's wrong?"

"I don't have enough ash. I know there's at least seven more types." He raised his head.

"Just take a break. Update your blog."

"I already have."

"Let me see."

"Fine." Sherlock let John type in the url and moved his hands off the keys and to John's sides. He pulled him up and into him as he scooted backwards to readjust. John tried to ignore it as he typed "thescienceofdeduction.co.uk" into the laptop. Once the blue and black blog popped up, John moved the cursor to the case of the uncle. He felt Sherlock groan into his neck as he opened it.

John chuckled, "I would think you'd be proud of this."

"I am, but now you're reading it in front of me."

"You little prat, you read mine over my shoulder all the time."

"What, this shoulder?" Sherlock leaned down and kissed John's right shoulder, keeping his lips there until John answered. 

 _Oh, God._ "Yes, that one." John dragged his eyes down the blog entry. He stopped midway. "You called the girl snotty."

Sherlock responded, "She was snotty."

"No, you were just mean."

"Keep reading."

John obeyed. When he was finished, he moved on to forum posts. He didn't say anything about the case update. Sherlock always seemed more arrogant and rude on his blog. He was rather irritated at him for that.

Sherlock moved his head to John's other shoulder. "Wait, what did you think?"

John slid over so he could look back at Sherlock. "You're so rude in it."

The detective just rolled his eyes, "It's almost five." 

"Fine, let's just go." John lifted Sherlock's laptop and roused from Sherlock's lap but he locked him in with his arms.

"Wait." He tugged John back and forced him to look at him over his shoulder. He was wonderfully attractive up close. John hadn't noticed that he had a light dusting of brown freckles over the bridge of his nose before. Sherlock smiled at him, his mouth spreading flat. His grin dropped, however, when he kissed John softly on the lips. John felt pink but was released by the man, his wiry body untangling from him and disappearing from behind him. "Shall we?" he asked.

John rolled his neck and stood from the couch, surprised he still had feeling in his legs. "To the bank."

"To the bank." Sherlock threw John his jacket from its position on the living room table and moved quickly across the flat to retrieve his charcoal trademark coat.

* * *

The cab ride this time was more obvious. John and Sherlock almost battled for leg space, inevitably entwining their legs in the center. Sherlock then turned his head to the window and brought a fist to his lips. John turned to look out his.

London flashed by, pedestrians and shops sparkling with fleeting color. The grey haze that covered the city had darkened it up, so the windows of buildings glowed faintly. A woman with a dog was waiting at the corner when they turned, and a man on a green bike was catching up to them. John turned back to the inside of the cab, where Sherlock was already looking at him. 

When they pulled up to the nearest empty curb space, the bank was half a block away. Sherlock paid the cabbie and hustled John out after untangling their legs. John felt a large hand on the small of his back as he straightened himself out into a standing position on the sidewalk, but it quickly shied away and retreated back into Sherlock's pocket once he was out fully. The started to walk silently, John having to take larger steps than usual to keep up with Sherlock's sweeping coat. He hustled to join him, their shoulders brushing.

John loved the look of Sherlock's stern profile, and he gazed at it as he walked on his right. They were approaching the bank quickly, so John had to look away. 

"So… Lestrade and your brother?" John asked, hoping to spark the connection between Mycroft and the detective inspector's relationship and theirs, which still didn't have a name.

"Yes. Greg has been pursuing him for a while. Seems they finally worked it out."

John swallowed, his throat dry. "…That's good."

But Sherlock's witty remark was cut short when the men were forced to push closer together, a grumpy man shoving past them. In the small moment of having to come closer to Sherlock, John felt their hands brush. Sherlock's hand had how come out from his pocket to play, his skin prickling at the contact.

Without thinking really at all, he laced his fingers through Sherlock's large hand. The man, although maintaining a cold composure, accepted John's grasp and wove his slender fingers tighter. He pulled John close so their hands were hidden beneath the folds of his cloak. John reveled in the smooth, warm skin of Sherlock's palm and the full sensation of his fingers between his.

They only had a minute or so before the ATMs outside of the bank came to them. John slipped his free hand into his pocket for his wallet to retrieve his card and check his balance, but he couldn't open it with one hand alone. He had to release Sherlock, as painful as that was, as he fiddled with it. Sherlock leaned against the wall of the bank cooly as he watched John. He was smirking at him in a ridiculously pretentious way, but John was now so accustomed to the sight that he found it gorgeous.

Reluctantly pulling his gaze away, John checked how much money he had left and decided not to take any cash out based on what he saw. He took his card from the machine and returned it back to his wallet. He turned towards Sherlock and raised his eyebrows apologetically. Sherlock just extended his hand. John took it without a thought and brought himself to Sherlock. He lifted himself on his toes and kissed Sherlock quickly. 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Public displays of affection aren't your thing, John."

"Maybe they are now."

"That didn't take as long as I expected. Want to roam the town for a while and grab dinner?"

"As long as you treat, I'm short on cash."

"Fine, you can get the next date."

"Date? So this is actually a thing now?" 

Sherlock pressed himself closer to John and leaned down to kiss him. He pulled at his bottom lip with his teeth as he backed away. "What do you think?"

John didn't look around. He didn't care if people were staring. He wanted them to, if anything. He wanted them to see how he was looking at Sherlock now, so in love, so happy. He wanted them to wish they had something like this. "I think I've wanted this to be a thing for longer than I'd care to admit." 

"Good, now come on, I want to take my boyfriend to dinner." Sherlock took him by the hand and clasped their fingers together proudly. 

The sound of Sherlock calling him his boyfriend made John's heart flutter with excitement. It was so unlike him, and yet, of all that had happened… It was. It was like Sherlock to want to show John off. It was like the cocky detective Sherlock Holmes to parade his John Watson around. And John was soaking in every bit of it, that smug bastard.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is honestly my favorite chapter because they're a couple without a label just yet, and it's so cute and unsaid and said at the same time and just asdfggioFLADOGISHJFLBISFOIJ!
> 
> Also, ash!


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It'd been a few days since they'd gone to the bank, and things in 221B had been relatively normal.

"You know, you're really not helping your cause," John said as he combed down his thin bangs. Sherlock was next to him, splashing aftershave on his cheeks.

"What cause?"

"The cause of keeping me from kissing you every three seconds."

"…And that's a problem why?" Sherlock looked at him through the mirror, his eyes a bit puffy from the lack of sleep the night prior. They'd stayed up late once more, watching old black and white movies and talking about themselves. Sherlock had finally divulged his entire life story to John, and John to him. Save for a few details about Sherlock's nonexistent sex life.

"Because I have stuff to do, and I can't be distracted by you and your cheekbones."

"What's wrong with my cheekbones?"

John just smiled at him and nudged his shoulder. He shook his head. It'd been a few days since they'd gone to the bank, and things in 221B had been relatively normal. John still procrastinated going to work and Sherlock still messaged Lestrade daily for word of a case. Now, however, there were no tense, awkward silences. They'd kiss each other before breakfast and continue on through the day, one part of their bodies touching in some way or another. Once it got dark, they continued on with their night activities such as reading and watching bad telly, only now their limbs were all tangled up. Of course, cuddling always lead to snogging, and with each day, they ended up more hot and bothered than the time before. Nothing had happened past steamy makeout sessions, though. 

Of course, both John and Sherlock knew that something _would_ happen, but there was no sex-schedule during lazy days around the flat and they seemed more than content with the pace things were going. It wasn't a far leap, actually, from flatmates to partners. The sassy flirting was still there, as was the intense eye sex. It was all the same, really - just more touching. 

Sherlock reached forward now and grabbed his hair product. They were sharing Sherlock's bathroom now, since they also shared his bedroom. It was fairly easy to fall asleep next to Sherlock Holmes, since he provided a pretty satisfying teddy bear.

He squeezed some into the palm of his hand and raked them through his curls. John, as usual, was smitten. He now was a part of Sherlock's morning routine and saw his transition from grumpy morning baby to regal detective. Most of the time, they just lounged about the flat, but John and he had gone out to Angelo's that first night and somewhere else the night after. Neither of them had a problem being particularly sickeningly sentimental in public, although Sherlock told John to stop running his foot up his leg under the table for his own sanity.

John turned his face from side to side, checking his cheeks for any imperfections. Sherlock rinsed his hands. When it seemed both of them were finished getting ready, they pushed each other out the door, stumbling like fools in a sort of childish race. 

Once again, they hadn't planned anything for the day and Lestrade didn't seem to provide them a case, nor did their blogs. They fixed themselves some tea and scones in the kitchen, flitting about and biting each other's shoulders. The men had adopted that as their equivalent to surprise kisses. Only when they really need the other's attention did they move their mouths from the shoulder to the muscle next to it, sinking their teeth in a little deeper. Both of them seemed to fancy pain every once in a while, and John always cursed Sherlock as a kinky motherfucker every time he did it.

They finished fixing their scones with proper jam and butter and sat themselves at the living room table. They ate silently while reading different sections of the paper. When the breakfast had disappeared, their free hands sneaked forward over the table and met in the middle. They exchanged sections of the paper and continued to read silently, smug grins on their faces.

Everything was as it should be. Everything worked.

* * *

Later that afternoon, John and Sherlock were lounging in bed. John had his head on Sherlock's chest, Sherlock's hand resting on the dip in his side, the other mindlessly scrolling through his phone. He was playing one of those math games, and he was on a ridiculously high level. John almost fell asleep with the serenity of it, feeling Sherlock's chest rise and fall under his head. He woke himself up though, to ask Sherlock what he thought about sex.

"Sex? Sometimes it doesn't make sense to me. I think it's rather strange, being naked with someone, having them get you off. I never understood it. Seemed rather pointless."

Without moving his head, John spoke towards sherlock's navel, "Yes, but you didn't understand kissing either and now you're great at it."

Sherlock considered this, "I suppose that's true. I didn't know I liked it until I tried it. But it's more serious with sex… Like kissing, it only appeals to me in certain circumstances."

"Like?"

"Well, with you." Sherlock spoke nonchalantly; John was surprised.

 _That's a good start…_ "Explain please."

Sherlock looked down at the man on his chest. He put the game down and spoke to the back of his head. "I never pictured myself having sex with anyone before you came along."

"So, you think you'd be okay if it was me?"

"I feel like you would be the only person I'd be comfortable with, yes. At least, we can only hope. But I know that you'd take care of me, that you'd try to help me understand."

John turned his head down and kissed his chest before swiveling his body upwards to face Sherlock. "Of course I would. Of _course,_ Sherlock."

The detective looked helpless and vulnerable, as if he needed constant reassurance that John would be good to him. _If you didn't want to have sex at all, I wouldn't ask you to._

"I know you would. Which is why I'm not afraid to try it."

John's stomach dropped. "If you don't want to, Sherlock, nobody's forcing you. I'd be completely fine without it. It's only if you want to."

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John as thanks. "I do want to, actually. Quite a lot. I've had dreams, you know. Even though I don't know the …mechanics."

The army doctor found himself crawling forward and placing himself next to Sherlock, leaning up against the headboard with his shoulder so he could give Sherlock his full attention. "Tell me about the dream and I'll tell you ho it works."

"You know about sex with men?" Sherlock's eyes were wide with surprise and John was pleased to remind him of his time in the army. "…Oh, right. You told me that."

"Yes well, we can talk more about that later. Tell me about your dreams." _Tell me everything, love._

* * *

Sherlock swallowed nervously. John was looking at him as if he'd help him with anything he couldn't say, but he also seemed excited. He didn't know if he should recall the lilac dream from a few days ago, or even where to begin. But John took his hand understandably and Sherlock breathed. _I love you,_ the virginal dectective reminded himself.

"Well, a few days ago… The day we made the cake, I had a dream the night before where we were in this sort of forest clearing. There was this lilac mist and it smelled pretty flowery, which was nice. I was underneath this person and he was kissing my neck and rolling his body on me. At first I was worried, but then I learned it was you," John looked down and smiled, "and it was okay. I don't know what was happening, really, but it felt nice to have you on top of me and we were sort of rocking back and forth… It was pleasurable, and I know what that feels like, because of… masturbation and the like. Everything pertaining to sex other than that seemed ridiculous and rather sickening, but then I started having dreams and feelings for you in particular and it wasn't as strange. I just liked the protection I felt and the warmth of your body on me. …That's all." He'd struggled with the words but John was a good listener. He chuckled now, but not to be rude.

"I knew you were a bottom."

"A what?"

"A bottom. When two guys have sex, it's like when a man and a woman have sex. No, don't make that face - I'm going to tell you about it. I've had plenty of sex in my day with both men and women, some experiences better than others. I'd always use protection and everything, but some things are different with men. You and your… partner… Can just grind into each other, cocks touching," Sherlock grimaced at the words and John pinched him, "If you don't like that word, just wait. It gets worse. Anyway, there's kissing and grinding and all that - but there's also anal play."

"WHAT?" _For Chrissake, John!_

John tried to keep himself from laughing as he continued. Sherlock was sure his face looked horrified. "There's an gland in the arse right by our bollocks that feels really good when it's touched. There's also nerve endings all around and in the arsehole. Basically, a 'bottom' or 'catcher' receives the stimulus from there, while the 'top' or 'pitcher' is the one giving the action. Be it fingers, cock, or tongue." John wasn't even embarrassed at this point. He was just grinning like a madman. Sherlock wouldn't have believed him if he didn't trust him so much.

"…Tongue? Oh, God."

"I know, it sounds gross, but it feels really good. Anyway, that's why I think you're a bottom. Not because you're inexperienced or compliant or anything, but because when you fantasized, even though you didn't know what was happening, you were the bottom."

 _That… That makes sense._ "Are you a bottom?"

John finally laughed, sharp and high. "No, but it's not anything to be ashamed of it you are. People always make it seem like bottoms are weak, but it's just what you like. You can even be both."

"…Huh."

"Yeah. It hurts a little, bottoming, but I think you'll be okay. That is, if you're up to it. Anything you don't want to do, tell me. We won't do it."

 _Stop making it so easy for me to love you._ "Okay. I think I want to try everything. Slowly, of course."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, John. I don't understand a lot about this stuff but you're helping me with it. And you're the only one I'd ever want to with. ...You know, I used to call myself asexual."

John cocked his head playfully. "What's that?"

"Its when you don't experience sexual attraction to people. Aromantic is like that, too, but with romantic attraction. But I don't think I can call myself those anymore."

"Because of me?"

"Yes. Is there something for 'I've-never-wanted-to-shag-anyone-besides-my-best-friend-after-knowing-him-for-a-year?' Probably not."

John leaned into Sherlock and kissed where his neck connected to his collarbone. "Don't know, maybe you could look it up?"

Sherlock hummed in agreement. John settled back into his lap, his head on his chest, like before, as Sherlock picked up his phone. He didn't know what to type into the search bar but he tried "Sexual attraction with love."

His result seemed promising. He clicked on the Wikipedia article that mentioned something about asexuality, too.

 "Demisexual," he said. 

The doctor turned his head towards Sherlock and grinned. "The demisexual and the bisexual. I think we make quite a pair."

Stroking his hair affectionately, Sherlock returned the smile. _I definitely found a good one. Definitely._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twenty-seven chapters in and they're finally a couple... I'm not sorry. >:)
> 
> Oh, and asexual/demisexual representation is really important because that's me, too!


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John raked evidence of his gratitude into Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock had John pinned up against the wall of his bedroom, grinding into him, guided only by his own pleasure and the look on John's face. He captured John's mouth with own, hungry to satiate himself. Pleasure was coiling in his center and building in his groin, as was John's, and they were both tight in their trousers. Sherlock let his leadership qualities take over as he grabbed John's wrists and pinned them above his head, biting and sucking on his lips. He increased his gyration and John was helpless, breathing erratically and trapping moans in Sherlock's mouth. The men rubbed themselves together through their clothes, both heady and needy for more.

In the few days they'd been officially together, both the detective and his colleague had gathered enough information to understand what the other liked the best. Sherlock's weak spots were his neck, his hair, being praised, and John pulling rank by calling himself "Captain." Whereas John's shoulders made him melt, as well as Sherlock touching his hips. This was the first time they'd agreed to go as farther than heavy snogging, and while Sherlock didn't necessarily know what that entailed, his excitement was growing quickly.

Careful not to brush his scar, Sherlock brought his mouth to the soldier's shoulder. He moaned and bit into it through his jumper. Dropping his head back, John spread his thighs further for more access, his mind spouting off compliments and grateful swears. 

Finally finding his voice, John breathed Sherlock's name. Upon hearing it, Sherlock went wild and released John's wrists to pick up him under his thighs. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and pulled at his curls. Sherlock crashed their mouths together as he settled John's legs around his waist. John was now craning his hips forward, only the wall behind him and the man underneath him providing him support. Sherlock steadied himself and continued to grind them together, his hands wandering over the soldier's thighs and hips. 

The detective pulled back and peeked through half-lidded eyes at his partner's response. John's brow was knit and his mouth was open and eliciting breathy gasps. Upon realizing that Sherlock was no longer kissing his swollen lips, he drew the bottom one into his mouth and craned his head back. His grip tightened on Sherlock's collar, but Sherlock could tell that he'd last much longer than he probably would have by now, and he resumed canting his hips into John's.

John tried desperately to speak, but his words were half whispered and broken by happy little moans. "Sherlock… Maybe you can just… try things… on me…"

Although Sherlock's head was fuzzy and his own pleasure seemed undeniable, he understood John's proposal. He'd told John that he wanted to go slow, even if he didn't know how to go about things, and John seemed to think that putting himself in a vulnerable position was smart for their first breach of the boundary. Sherlock agreed with a hum, locking his lips onto John's jaw before he tried to pull John's sweater over his head. 

Raising his arms, Sherlock pulled both the jumper and his undershirt over his head and threw them carelessly away. His hands immediately roamed John's bare skin, which was warm and tender. Sherlock knew what John looked like, but he couldn't help himself from looking again.

His round shoulders were strong, the muscle there define and separate from his biceps. His collarbone was sharp and the dip at the center of his neck was rising and falling. The shiny skin of his scar made Sherlock deepen his rotation upon seeing it, noting it as evidence of John's ability in the military. There was a light dusting of blond hair across his chest, but it was barely visible. His ribs were straining under his skin, his abdomen contracting and rolling as he helplessly tried to push himself into Sherlock harder. 

Now completely able to mouth at John's chest and shoulders, he did so, dragging his lips down the dips and raises in his muscles and bones. John croaked a meek moan and urged Sherlock to let his wandering hands slip lower. Sherlock obliged, but tortuously slow. He turned his hand so only the tips of his fingers trailed down John's stomach. He rested his forehead on the wall so John could muffle his gasps in his skin. John quickly indulged in sucking bright red marks on Sherlock's neck. The detective was lucky he already wore a scarf when he went out, since his pale, tight neck was covered in John's hickies. 

Raising himself from John a few inches so he could meet his straining erection with his fingers, Sherlock documented the exact noise John made as he brushed it. Nimbly unbuckling his belt, sliding it from John's hips, and throwing it aimlessly aside, he noted John's groan of agreement. 

The man was trying to make commands, ordering Sherlock to stop teasing and touch him, but all that came out were breaths. Sherlock had unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers and had slipped his large hand over John the bulge in John's pants. John's cock filled the entirety of his palm, thick and solid. John continued to tease Sherlock's neck, pulling back only to swear in his ear.

Bucking his hips upwards in a beg to be touched, Sherlock obeyed and began stroking John. He noted that it felt rather like his own, albeit wider and hotter. John dropped his head away from Sherlock's neck and gasped towards the ceiling. No longer was Sherlock gyrating into him, but digging his hand deeper into John's trousers, rocking his own erection against the back of his hand. 

The soldier tried to tell Sherlock to continue on underneath his pants, but all that came out was, "Fuck~" …Apparently, Sherlock had done something right and he repeated it. John liked that very much. Sliding his palm vertically up John's cock, he felt a damp spot appear at the head. With that, Sherlock couldn't resist any longer, and he pulled John's pants down.

Fully exposed now, Sherlock dropped his gaze to John's groin. His cock was peach colored and indeed, larger than he'd anticipated. He always knew that John was bigger, due to his many satisfied girlfriends and even the way he walked, but now he was before him and Sherlock couldn't help but look at it in awe. He resumed touching it, this time wrapping his hand around it and pulling up and down.

John was almost gone at this point, he was muttering swears and clawing at Sherlock's purple dress shirt. The collar was crumpled by John's needy hands, but they slowly descended down Sherlock's back and settled as far as he could reach. He seldom took his mouth from Sherlock's, their kisses heavy and deep. John was indulging deeply, claiming every inch of Sherlock's mouth with his tongue. Both of their mouths were swollen and bitten, and John had to occasionally pull back to moan Sherlock's name.

Digging his nails into Sherlock's back, John found the remains of his voice. "Good… That's… perfect."

Sherlock kept his motions steady, pulling and pushing his hand around John. John raked evidence of his gratitude into Sherlock's skin.

The pain in his back and the noises John was making only made Sherlock want it more, and he tried to satiate his need by rubbing himself through his clothes. He wanted John to touch him instead, but he didn't know how to say it, so he just took care of himself. He thought he should just let John enjoy this; they had endless time to work on himself.

* * *

John was here, in Sherlock's room, lifted up against Sherlock's wall, receiving a fantastic handjob from no other than the man himself. If he hadn't been preoccupied with the lovely pleasure building in him, he would have never believed this to be the case.

Of all the times he'd wanted it, dreamt it, cursed Sherlock for never appearing in his room in the middle of the night, he felt extremely satisfied how things turned out. He was not only the one person Sherlock had opened up to sexually, but the man he'd chosen to teach him, and every one of John's kinks and fantasies were never disregarded. Of course, he felt he should wait a few months before pointing out that he'd always wanted to see Sherlock in lace.

Sherlock's hand was merciless, grabbing him and pumping him at a perfect angle, a perfect rhythm. John commanded him to go faster, and he did, squeezing tighter. _Fuck me, oh God._

John blessed his life over and over, calling to the universe how lucky he was and how much he loved the man now breathing against his bare chest. He wanted Sherlock to touch him all over as well as the tingling in his skin to never go away. His arms were going weak and he was close. 

He wanted to hold out, but Sherlock was grasping him just right, and the presence of him in such a realm as sex alone was enough to make John whimper. Cursing loudly and bucking his hips into Sherlock's palm, Sherlock increased and tightened his grip.

* * *

His love was here, groaning his name, calling out to be touched, melting at his fingertips, and Sherlock was overwhelmed. Sherlock was spouting off internal confessions like notes from his violin, but John's breathing was music enough. 

Sherlock had never believed that he'd be a part of this. He never thought that a year after starting life with John, that he'd have him moaning whorishly against a wall, the muscles in his arms contracting as they raked sharp tears in his skin. Sherlock was now beginning to understand why people partook in sex; it was bloody wonderful when done with the right person.

John was so guilty in his pleasure, and he bucked himself into Sherlock's palm. Rubbing himself through his trousers, Sherlock felt himself come close as well. He wanted to time his orgasm with John's, pushing forward both pressures from his hands.

Leaning forward, Sherlock whispered in John's ear. "John… Are you close?"

"Yes, Sherlock," he moaned back. "You're… fantastic."

That last bit of praise, tumbling off John's damp lips, caused Sherlock to grit his teeth and come in his trousers. As waves of pleasure coursed through him, he moved his hand over John further, stretching deep towards the base and high at his tip. John was silky and slipped easily through his hands, although his solidity was thickening with the increase of blood flow.

Sherlock pumped harder in speed but the maintained rythym, as soon John was swearing up a storm and coming in streaks over Sherlock's hand. 

Shuddering with the final edge of his orgasm, John dipped his head back and pushed his hips forward forcefully. After half a minute, he pulled back and Sherlock helped to tuck him back into his pants. Zipping and buttoning up his trousers for him, Sherlock noted the complete look of peace spread across John's face.

Of course, he was sticky and sore in various places, but it was worth it; John was so beautiful with a post-orgasm grin on his face. 

Sherlock lifted John from the wall and carried him to the bed, where he set him down on his back. Hurrying off to the bathroom to clean himself, Sherlock thought to himself. _John, I'm so glad that we can work in this way. I hope I made it alright for you, you certainly seemed to have fun._ Noting his own flushed reflection, he added, _This is just another thing to make me love you - you're so bloody_ sexy.

He rinsed his had and wiped down the inside of his pants with a damp hand towel. The fabric was wet and cold when it snapped back to his skin, but Sherlock would change later. There was a gorgeous man waiting for him on his bed, and he couldn't deny himself now being able to talk to him without moaning.

When he returned, John was sitting up on his bed, eyes wide and excited, face flushed. He patted the empty spot next to him. Sherlock met him there and sat, immediately having John tackle him and push him backwards onto the bed. 

After a thorough smothering of kisses, John raised himself and grinned. "Sherlock," he said.

"Hm?"

"By far the _best_ handjob I've ever had in my life."

"Hm… Good."

John glanced down to Sherlock's crotch. "What about you? What happened?"

Sherlock reached for John's hands and he helped pull him up. Taking his face in his palms once seated at attention, he kissed John softly on the lips. "I took care of it."

The man whined, "I wanted to do it!"

Sherlock thought of the next time they'd go further. He didn't know what he'd be like in John's position, considering what had happened in the university library. "You looked so happy, I didn't want to ruin it."

"You'd never ruin it." John crawled forward and laid himself down on his side of the bed. Sherlock followed and laid adjacent him, their faces close. John took Sherlock's hands. "How do you feel now?"

"Like I'd been casting off something wonderful and may have missed a few opportunities."

"Do you think it would have been like that if you'd run off into the night with some bloke?" John looked relatively sad, a bit of jealously clouding his navy eyes.

Sherlock moved his legs and locked them between John's, curling around his calf and pulling him closer. "Not like that, no. I'm sure that's only with you."

John closed his eyes. "No matter how many times you say that, I still can't wrap my head around it."

"Well, try. Because I'm excited to try everything with you and _only_ you." _Because I've fallen in love with you and you make it so easy for me to._

Meeting Sherlock's gaze with his own seductive stare, John said, "God, you're wonderful."

Sherlock rolled onto his back to avoid confessing right then and there. "Want to watch a movie?"

"Fine. Tomorrow we continue the lesson."

Sherlock swore he could hear John's smile in his voice. "Perfect."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, erotica!


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The idea of being watched was both erotic and nerve-wracking.

Another lazy day passed, still no word of a case. John and Sherlock were both happy about that, actually. They had more time to lounge around in the flat.

It went unspoken that today they were going to try something new, but they usually saved it for the evening. There was less of a chance of Mrs. Hudson walking in on them, as well as leaving the rest of the day for ridiculously sentimental couple stuff. No matter what they were doing, however, Sherlock always kissed John in the middle of it, softly and quickly, purely because he could.

They tried to spend the day in bed, eating sweet foods and making fun of everyone in Scotland Yard. Unfortunately, both of them were antsy and cramping, so they took left the flat to take a stroll in the park. John had held his partner's hand proudly when they walked, as if everyone in London should be jealous that he had Sherlock wrapped round his finger. They'd found a spot on a bench and Sherlock leaned in close to whisper to John embarrassing deductions about everyone in the park. John's laughter only made Sherlock deduce them further, even adding a few lies. John kissed Sherlock on the cheek, sure that the grandmother across the way would shake her head in disgust. She did and they both just cuddled closer and taunted her. Eventually, the park's atmosphere irritated them, and they left with a sweep of Sherlock's coat. On the way back, they dipped into an alleyway to make out. Once home, Sherlock and John changed into comfortable clothes and resumed the pleasant nothingness, the evening closing in with the sunset.

Sherlock was on his stomach in his bed and John was giving him a massage now, the detective's strong shoulder blades jutting through the thin of his pajama shirt. John was humming to him as he rubbed Sherlock's sore bones. He noticed the raised lines that he'd scratched from the day previous, and he was careful not to rub them harshly. He only stopped, however, to trace words into his back with his finger, letter by letter, slowly.

The detective's face was hidden in a pillow, so his words were muffled. "What're you doing?"

"Try and guess what I'm writing."

It took all of John's might not to write 'I love you,' into his back, for he didn't know how Sherlock would respond to that. He did take it a step down, though, and wrote 'I'm so happy.' 

Sherlock told him what he thought he'd written.

John gently traced 'Correct.'  

The detective rolled up and touched John's shoulders, guiding him onto his front. "I want to try."

He flattened John's shirt and rubbed his tense muscles before starting. 'I'm so happy, too.'

John guessed correctly but was pushed back down when Sherlock said he hadn't finished. 'I want to…' He left the words at that and leaned over John to kiss his jaw. He whispered, "I want to go further…"

Sitting up and looking at his partner, John grinned. "Right now?"

"Yes." Sherlock licked his lips.

"What do you want to do?" John was already heating at the thought.

"Something equivalent to what I gave you yesterday, but …I'm worried. I've never had anyone touch me there, except for…" Sherlock trailed off. He'd told John of what happened in university, and John was completely understanding. He even teared up a bit, although he would never admit it. He told Sherlock that it was alright if it took him a while to get to that point. He also said it wasn't his fault, which was something nobody had ever told him.

John kissed both of Sherlock's cheeks. "I have an idea."

"Hm?"

"I want you to be comfortable around me. I want you to be able to come when you're put on the spot, since yesterday you did it so sneakily. I'm not going to touch you there, not yet… Rather, I want you to touch yourself in front of me."

* * *

Sherlock's stomach dropped. John was looking at him seductively, but it wasn't lecherous. He was genuinely trying to make things alright. Of course, the idea of being watched was both erotic and nerve-wracking. Sherlock _did_ want to be able to perform for John, especially if he was going to be at the receiving as well as giving. Seemed John knew him better than he thought, since he had been relieved to start with John and not him. He pulled his legs in and set his chin on his knees. He took a moment to consider how he'd react. He was used to masturbation, but not to being seen by someone else. That thought had always scared him. What if the person didn't _want_ to look at him?

John patted Sherlock's head. "Does that seem okay?"

"Brilliant." Sherlock met John's eyes. They were consoling and Sherlock believed John knew what he was doing. 

Pulling him forward and into a kiss, John laid himself back and deepened it. Sherlock moved his head and opened his mouth, greedily accepting John's tongue. How quickly Sherlock reacted to John's touch was a hypothesis worth testing itself. 

After a bit of snogging, John told him to take his clothes off, and sitting up, Sherlock began fiddling at the hem of his shirt nervously. The war doctor took his hands and kissed them. Sherlock took them away and returned them to his shirt, pulling it over his head.

John's eyes swept down the pale expanse of Sherlock's torso, his hands sliding over every glorious inch. He raised himself on his elbows and kissed Sherlock's navel. He scrambled out from under neath him and sat himself up against the headboard of the bed. He nodded at Sherlock for him to begin taking off his trousers.

"John…"

"It's okay. I promise." John clasped his hands patiently. Sherlock was sure that it'd be hard for John not to touch him, but he appreciated the patience and he stood from the bed and slipped out of his pajamas, his pants slipping down with them. He turned his face away nervously and closed his eyes, sure that John was looking at him.

* * *

 _Christ, Sherlock._ John soaked in every bit of Sherlock's body as he stood before him. Sherlock lacked chest hair, which only caused him to look more like a sculpture, his arms and torso lean and strong. His flushed face was turned to the side, his neck slender and tight, the column that John loved to kiss prominent and risen. Red marks from John's eager mouth coated his neck and shoulders, but the rest of him was untouched, pale and sharp. His dark curls contrasted his skin, and John dropped his gaze to Sherlock's nose and the dip above his pink cupid's bow lips. From his tight jaw to his prominent collarbone, down his chiseled torso and across his solid thighs, John gazed. Darting his eyes over, he finally let himself indulge in the sight of Sherlock's cock, its solid length and the head, which was now slightly flushed pink with the excitement of being looked at. John couldn't contain a gasp as he noticed Sherlock's pelvis and jutting hipbones, dark hair spreading across his flat skin. He was like a painting, and John reveled in how smooth and tight Sherlock looked now. Pulling his eyes back up to Sherlock's face, he decided to praise him into comfort. 

"You're bloody gorgeous."

At that, Sherlock whimpered and tensed, his thighs quivering slightly. John shifted in his position, and although it'd be difficult not to satisfy himself, he knew that Sherlock would appreciate his patience. "John." Sherlock said again.

"Come over here." John extended a hand and the man obeyed, crawling onto the bed. He looked timid, his usual confident smirk now replaced with nervous eyes. John waited until Sherlock was close enough to see the bits of yellow in his irises, and he clasped his hands around Sherlock's face and kissed him softly. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, John… It's just… New."

John pressed his lips to Sherlock's once more before moving them to his ear, "You're magnificent. So beautiful…"

Sherlock must have liked that praise because his face became hot and his spine dipped as he ached to be touched. John released the man and asked him to sit upright on his knees in front of him. Sherlock did so, John still captivated by the lines and shadows in Sherlock's abdomen. He nodded a command, and Sherlock leaned back so he could brace himself on the bed with his left hand, his right slipping down his torso and towards his pelvis. Wrapping his slender fingers around his cock, Sherlock's face changed into that of pleasure. 

His eyes were half-lidded, and as he flecked his gaze from himself to John, John just shook his head. "My God…"

At the sound of John's praise once again, Sherlock began rolling his cupped hand over himself, the tip already damp. He continued to do so until he heard another sign of John's agreement. Closing his eyes and letting his head fall back, Sherlock performed for John.

The doctor watched carefully, but not so intensely to scare Sherlock. He pulled his knees in and hid his face partially with his hands as he bit into his thumb. Sherlock was continuing to touch himself, John noting exactly what angle and speed made Sherlock squirm. What did make him increase and buck his hips, however, was John's constant wonder. "Wow, just wow," he said.

John was biting into his thumb as he watched, Sherlock extremely beautiful as he touched himself. The room was still and John couldn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock's stretched thighs and craning hips. He was biting his lip and breathing hard through his nose, groaning. John was jealous of Sherlock's hand but he just let Sherlock show off his wonderful shape and sensual appeal. John saw a slight prickle of sweat appear on Sherlock's brow and his thighs quivered. He spoke again, eager to see Sherlock's mouth drop open with a helpless yelp. "So fucking incredible," he swore.

Sherlock increased his movements and curled forward, switching from steadying himself backwards to supporting himself from the front. His free hand clawed at the blanket, pulling the fabric in his helpless fist. He seemed to be comfortable now as his breathing was erratic and knees pressed hard into the bed. John complimented him again, lightly, as he moved from his sitting position and climbed around Sherlock. He now rested on his knees behind him. Sherlock's back was rolling, his spine dividing the muscle on both halves. His arse was round and shapely, and John resisted touching it. For the moment, at least. 

He did, however, place light kisses all over Sherlock's back and shoulders, muttering compliments into his skin. Red streaks from John's fingernails were raked across his shoulder blades, and John even kissed those, the raised skin tender. Sherlock's right arm increased in speed, and John raised himself to look at Sherlock over his shoulder. He was gripping himself and pulling upward, and John felt his own stomach drop at the sight.

John repeated his compliments, sweet nothings that made Sherlock quiver. He whispered into his ear and began kissing his neck. He was surprised how long Sherlock had lasted at this point, but he realized by his whimpers and moans that he was holding out for his command.

* * *

Sherlock was hyper aware of John behind him, but his feathery kisses and light compliments only drove him deeper into his own pleasure, and he was no longer worried about being seen. He even let himself moan louder, knowing that John would like to hear it. He kept his eyes open this time, noting that John was watching him from over his shoulder. He was so close, so far gone, but he hadn't heard John tell him to finish, so he focused on his breathing and tried not to let John's wonderful voice to control him. It was excruciatingly hard for him though, hearing his John praise him into oblivion and trying to hold out.

_John… Oh, God, John… Look at me… I want you to see what you do to me… Fuck, John. God, please, please, please let me hear you. Tell me I'm yours._

He balled the sheet harder under his fingers, his other hand sliding up and down his length between spread thighs. John's presence behind him made him eager to turn his head and receive a searing kiss, but he found himself paralyzed as his muscles clenched and he moaned wanton curses from parted lips. John was breathing as heavy as he was, his gasps hot on the back of his neck. Praise continued to flutter from John's lips as they brushed over Sherlock's hot skin, and he must have noticed how it was torturing Sherlock, for he found himself whimpering as pleasure took over him.

Cooing into his ear from behind him, John said, "Come for me, pretty." 

At that, Sherlock was straining himself, dipping his head back and exposing his neck. He tensed as he came, waves of hot pleasure coating him and making him weak. _Oh, John…_

John latched onto the muscle between his shoulder and his neck with his mouth and glanced down at Sherlock's hand, which had tightened and was now coated in Sherlock's come. He continued to stroke himself until he was a quivering mess, and John gave one final compliment as Sherlock sagged forward and fell onto his side on the bed. He was breathing heavy and his heart was racing. The wallpaper stopped melting off the walls as his body cooled, muscles numb and strained.

Despite this, he felt comforted and wonderful, and John crawled beside him and continued to kiss him everywhere until Sherlock hummed a sigh of relief. He felt serene and he let his eyes close for a few minutes, John's hand stroking down his side.

When he came back to reality and opened his eyes, John was looking at him with something he did the night they met. It was complete and utter amazement, and with it, Sherlock noted that he would never have to compromise himself. "Hi," the detective said.

"You're amazing. You really are," John replied.

"I know," Sherlock said, twisting to pop his back. He was damp with sweat and was rather sticky, but he felt like he'd just performed a grand show and John was the only audience member who mattered.

John stood from the bed and retrieved Sherlock's blue robe, which he tossed to him. Sherlock didn't hurry to get into it, though. He liked being exposed in front of John. He slid his arms through it and tied it round his waist, but he left it loose so his thigh and hip could slip through the slit as he turned back to John. John climbed back into bed.

"Do you feel better?" John asked.

"Yes… but next time I'd prefer it if you helped me out."

John rolled himself over and pushed his back into Sherlock. He grabbed his ams and wrapped them around his waist, nuzzling his bum into Sherlock. "I think that can be arranged."

Sherlock was now the one to kiss John all over. He even pulled at the shell of John's ear with his teeth playfully before responding. "You're too good to me."

John huffed a small laugh. "You're worth it. You're worth every bit of it."

Sherlock recounted many frozen nights that ended up being scalding hot because of John, and he hid his smile in the back of John's neck. "How on earth did we make it to this point?"

"I don't know, but it definitely wasn't easy."

"John."

"Hm?"

"I'm hungry."

John chuckled, "You're only ever really hungry after we fool around. Do you link food with orgasms, or something?"

"I thought I didn't need either of them, and yet here I am, coming all over the place and craving pasta." Sherlock nestled closer into John's neck.

Tightening his grip around Sherlock's arms, John spoke. "Carbs and sex, what a life. Let's just lay here for a bit and we can order Italian."

Sherlock hummed and pressed his nose into John's hair as a sign of agreement.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Praise kink makes a girl go *✲ﾟ*｡✧٩(･ิᴗ･ิ๑)۶*✲ﾟ*｡✧


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obeying, Sherlock tucked his hands behind his head and spread his thighs expectantly.

Once again, Sherlock and John found themselves tangled up in bed, waking up in each other's arms. They both had slept soundly that night, and were spending the early morning continuing to revel in the excitement of being able to pursue more sexual experiences. John kept bringing up how beautiful Sherlock was since the events of the day before, and Sherlock eventually had to shut him up with a kiss. After breakfast, John wondered if he should go to work, and as much as Sherlock pleaded that he shouldn't, John convinced him that he had to.

He took his coat from the rack by the door as he spoke, Sherlock pouting at him from the couch. "Look, the first handful of lazy days were necessary to kick our relationship off, but if we're going to keep up the 'Happy in 221B' lifestyle, one of us needs to make money."

Sherlock whined, "But John!"

"Text Lestrade and ask him if there are any cases we've been missing. I'll be back around five. I promise." 

The out-of-work detective walked over to John and wrapped his arms around him in an attempt to keep him from leaving. "Fine. Any clue on what's to happen tonight?"

John lifted his face up to meet Sherlock's lips. After a quick smooch, he turned away, slightly embarrassed. "Uh, yeah, actually. You haven't showered yet today, have you? I mean, I was there the whole time, but..."

Jerking his head back, confused, Sherlock gave John a curious look. "No, I haven't."

After wiggling out of his arms and slipping his coat on, John cleared his throat nervously. "Once you do, make sure to wash… Places. ...Alright, I'm off!"

"Wha - Oh, for God's sakes, way to be subtle!" But John had left. Sherlock swore he heard nervous laughter carry from the staircase. Sherlock swallowed his excitement at what John had suggested, but he knew it wouldn't be anything worth worrying about.

* * *

Around noon, Sherlock bounced onto the couch and sent a text out to Lestrade. _Have there been any cases since last week? You never tell me and our blogs haven't been active. - SH_

The text came a few minutes later, and Sherlock gaped at his phone incredulously. Y _es, there have been. - GL_

_Prat, you didn't tell us? We've been out of work for a week! - SH_

_I assumed you both wanted to spend some time together in the "honeymoon phase" without being interrupted by dead people. - GL_

Sherlock took a moment to figure out what that meant. He tapped his thumb across the screen lithely. _Mycroft told you about John and I? How did he know? I haven't told him. - SH_

 _It's Mycroft, you know how he is. He assumed once he had that talk with John that someone would_ finally _say something or attempt to make a move. Besides, when I came over to pick up the cake, you two were the smuggest bastards I'd ever seen. Not a difficult assumption to make, based on previous talks with John. - GL_

_Fair enough. Well, thank you for that, Greg. Will you send us out on cases next week, at least? - SH_

_Of course. We barely made it through that last one without you. - GL_

_What was it of? - SH_

_Classic suicide case. It would have been cake for you. Speaking of cake, Anderson's birthday went well. He sends his regards. - GL_

_He can send his regards straight to my arsehole, that baking job was purely mandatory. - SH_

_I don't think Anderson will have to, John probably already has. Anyway, I have to go. Best of luck with the new relationship! - GL_

The detective dropped his phone in between his legs and laughed at himself. Seemed there was no way for he and John to be private anymore. Even Lestrade had to crack a joke about their sex life. 

Sherlock thought more of what John was planning and decided to time his meals so his digestion didn't mess anything up, as well as take a thorough bath before his mate returned.

* * *

"Sherlock, I'm home," John called as he entered the flat. "What did you do today? Did you talk to Greg? Has Mrs. Hudson stopped by? Work was fine, by the way. Sherlock?"

He hadn't responded and was nowhere in the living room. John ventured further in and looked around, half expecting to find Sherlock asleep in their room. The door was open, however, and Sherlock was not draped lavishly over the bed. John continued on and set about taking off his coat and brushing the stray raindrops out of his thin hair. He decided to wait for Sherlock to appear as he flipped through the paper, catching all the bits he'd missed that morning. He settled into his chair and crossed his legs.

While reading, Sherlock had ventured out of the bathroom and had sneaked up on John. He laid his head on John's shoulder and draped his arms over him. "There you - " John was cut off by an eager detective, lips pressing firmly into his own. John tipped his head up to meet the kiss, dropped the paper into his lap, and let his fingers find Sherlock's curls. They were damp. He pulled back, "So you did shower."

"Yes. And I did what you told me to."

"Good. Are you going to let me relax first or…?" Sherlock was already moving around John's chair, pulling at his wrists, and guiding him to the couch. Now fully in view, John noticed that Sherlock was not wearing pants under his dress robe. He let himself look fondly as Sherlock laid himself down on the couch and pulled John on top of him.

Immediately meeting his mouth, John accepted the invitation and continued on with all his usual tricks. He sucked Sherlock's bottom lip, ran his fingers through his hair, dug his arm around him, and moved his head to retouch the hickies on his neck. Sherlock opened his thighs underneath him as he greedily slid his hands under John's shirt, eager to take it off. John helped him and threw it to the side, returning to Sherlock's mouth with vigor.

 _"Welcome home, honey - no time for tea, let's snog instead." Never thought Sherlock would be the one pulling me into it, not that I'm complaining._ John pulled back from Sherlock's lips only to feel his hands move from his back to his belt. "Woah, Sherlock… What's the rush?"

Sherlock bit his jaw as he slid his belt away and let it fall to the floor. "I missed you."

 _Christ, Sherlock, I missed you too._ "God, you really know how to get what you want. Fine, let's do it. You know the rules, just tell me when you don't like something." John kissed him. "Other than that, do you trust me?"

"Yes, John." 

Sherlock returned to John's tongue and pulled at his lips with his teeth. He slipped his hand into John's trousers and began massaging him. John responded quickly, lifting Sherlock up by the waist and settling him on his knees. He tugged at the band that kept the halves of his robe closed and let it fall off Sherlock's shoulders. He took it, folded it, and set it on the arm of the couch, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't approve of his silk robe being tossed to the side. Sherlock just smirked at that and crawled forward, his cock already hard and begging John to touch it.

He did, and Sherlock let his arms fall forward and rested his hands on John's shoulders. John watched as Sherlock's face contorted into that which it had been the day previous, and he tried to mimic the touch that Sherlock seemed to like the best. Pulling him in long strokes, John reveled in the feeling of Sherlock. He finally could, and it was definitely worth it.

Sherlock was silky but solid, his tender skin hot and coursing with blood. John took Sherlock's right hand from his shoulder and set it on his own crotch. Sherlock began rubbing him and slipped his fingers under the hem of John's pants. Grasping him like John did him, the men both allowed themselves to turn their heated breaths into vocal moans.

John released Sherlock and leapt from the couch to shimmy out of his trousers and kick off his shoes. Giving Sherlock a sneaky grin, he pushed his red pants down and returned to the couch. He leaned up on his knees like Sherlock was and pulled him into a kiss, their arms holding the other tightly. This was the first time they'd both been naked together, and John took no time in feeling Sherlock's body on his.

The men ground themselves together for a moment, and John was almost lost to the pleasure. His original plan wasn't this, though, so he pulled away and commanded Sherlock. "Lie back and put your head on the pillow."

Obeying, Sherlock tucked his hands behind his head and spread his thighs expectantly. John's breath hitched at the sight of Sherlock looking at him from half-lidded eyes, green gems peeking at him. Sherlock watched as the doctor gazed at his flushed erection, heavy bollocks, and tight pink arsehole, which were now beckoning him as Sherlock displayed them. He was forced to pull his eyes away and back to Sherlock's face so he could clear his head and approach things slowly. He crawled onto all fours and leaned back on his legs, his toes digging into the couch cushion.

As much as he wanted to take Sherlock, he couldn't, so he let his hands wander over his skin and resume touching Sherlock's cock. The man closed his eyes as John leaned forward to kiss him, trailing his tongue from his bottom lip all the way down his neck. He kissed a line down Sherlock's chest and mouthed every inch of it. He tightened his grip on the man with one hand, the other rubbing the underside of Sherlock's thigh comfortingly. John continued to trail down Sherlock's body before stopping just at the base of his pelvis and looking up. "Alright?" he asked.

"Yes." Sherlock took a deep breath and peeked at John from under his lids. He seemed to be nervous. 

 _Don't be, love. You're going to enjoy this, I promise._ John focused his attention at the head of Sherlock's cock, which was pink and damp and inches away from his mouth. He licked it tenderly, flicking his eyes up at Sherlock. His thighs quivered and he took a sharp breath. John resumed mouthing Sherlock, drawing the head in and swirling his tongue all around it. _Jesus, I haven't done this in years._

He sucked his cheeks in and dipped his head lower, taking half of Sherlock into his mouth and trying not to laugh at the whorish sounds the usually impassive man was making. He let his hands slide up Sherlock's thighs and onto his hips, spreading out over his stomach and scooping down to trace his sides. As he moved them back up towards Sherlock's ribs, he dipped his head lower, accepting the entirety of Sherlock into his mouth. 

The man definitely liked that, for he was quivering and squirming excitedly under John's hands, his breaths interrupted by satisfied sighs. John moved his mouth back up, pushing the flat of his tongue against the hot skin until he hit the tip and sucked on it. He moved back down, angling his head so he could take it all, and while it was difficult for him to remember the technique, he seemed to make an impression on Sherlock.

When he needed to catch his breath, John moved his mouth to the tender skin on the inside of Sherlock's lean thighs, where he painted red hickies from the tendon beside his crotch to the underside of his bum. Sherlock was eager, though, and he moaned his irritation so John could resume his job.

John continued to suck him off until Sherlock was completely coated in his saliva, some of it even slipping down into his cleft. John closed his eyes and focused on pleasing Sherlock, pulling back just enough so he didn't finish - although with Sherlock, it was hard to say, since he had that lovely virgin sensitivity. He seemed to be faring well, though, since he had now found John's hands with his own and had been squeezing them as he sucked lower. 

After about two minutes, John pulled off and asked Sherlock how he liked it. All he heard was something equivalent to a mewl, and he smiled to hide his laugh as rolled his neck and readjusted himself. He was still hard himself, but he just tried to ignore it for Sherlock's sake. Of course, that was easier said than done, and as he returned to Sherlock's crotch, he rubbed himself on the couch to relieve some of the pressure.

John was never fond of testicle play, but he tried it just in case. He licked at them and drew one into his mouth. Sherlock canted his hips up so much that John decided against it, since he almost had gotten a bloody nose and Sherlock seemed overly sensitive. "Sorry," he said, "Just trying it out."

"John…" Sherlock breathed. John looked up at Sherlock, who's face was redder than he'd ever seen it. He was blushing strongly and pulling at his bottom lip with his teeth so much, that John decided to move on to the next steps, eager to see how much Sherlock would react to them.

"Alright, Sherlock… Let's - just see about this." Turning his attention now to the opening at Sherlock's cleft, he took his hands and pushed Sherlock's thighs up and out with his hands. He recalled how that first night he and Sherlock were at Angelo's, he'd wanted so badly to have Sherlock's pretty arsehole for dessert. _Now, here we are…_

John met the opening with his tongue, and audible "Oh!" coming from above him. After a few seconds of awkward situating, Sherlock met John's hands at the insides of his thighs and pulled them up further. John continued to roll his tongue over the opening, enjoying himself quite a bit. Sherlock's bundle of nerves ignited and he widened, allowing John to trek further. He pushed his tongue inside, Sherlock moaning loudly as he accepted him. The taste and feel of Sherlock alone had caused him to buck his own hips into the couch, yet he tried to calm himself as he mouthed Sherlock's reddening opening.

After rimming him for a few minutes, John felt that Sherlock was satisfied since he was swearing his name and nearly yelling, his hands pushed into the arm of the couch beside his head. He'd been canting his hips up and spreading his thighs to their limit. John decided he was ready, since he was wide, wet, and greedy. John pulled back and sucked on his right hand middle finger, glancing up at Sherlock, who was flushed and almost drooling.

He documented the sight and didn't pull his eyes away as he inserted his finger. Sherlock immediately accepted him and moaned. He began sinking his hips toward John's hands as he moved his fingers, and John could barely contain himself at the thought of what Sherlock would be like when he took him fully. 

Sherlock widened once again, and John added a second finger. He scissored them together, stretching Sherlock wide. He plunged his fingers deep and focused on Sherlock's reactions. Obviously, he was a mess. He was cursing and moaning and yelling and John was sure Mrs. Hudson, along with their other neighbors, had had to turn up their music to drown out Sherlock's ridiculous noise. 

Once John's name was repeated over and over on every breath, he added a third finger, surprised how easily Sherlock had accepted it. He ignored the sinking excitement he'd been feeling in his stomach and returned to sucking Sherlock off, never relinquishing his merciless fingers. 

* * *

Sherlock had never thought such pleasure was real. Every bit of his body was enflamed, and he let himself go wild with yelps and moans, most of which he didn't even know how to contain. His cock was pulsing with the feeling of John's wet mouth, while the painful stretch of his arsehole caused him to lose a great deal of his sanity. He wasn't entirely sure how he'd lasted this long, if he was being honest with himself, but he didn't want to ever come if this pleasure could continue forever.

His thighs tried to spread farther, a needy feeling pulling them apart, but they wouldn't budge. He needed to buck his lips to relieve some, but John's mouth and fingers had him pinned. His mind was fuzzy and he felt sweat drip from his bangs into his eyes. When he did open them, however, he saw John happily sucking him off and plunging fingers into him, the muscle in his shoulder tensing with the movement. His blond head dipped lower and pulled up, his cheeks sucked in and his eyes closed as he did so.

Sherlock couldn't even form coherent thoughts, and those he did had mass amounts of cursing in them, that which he wasn't extremely fond of. They mixed with John's name and became a sort of internal chant, some curses which slipped out on a particularly huffed breath.

Luckily for his sanity, John pulled his mouth off him and just resumed fingering him. Unluckily for his sanity, however, John shifted his fingers up a bit and Sherlock was gone with the stimulation of his prostate. He was melting, completely unable to feel any of his limbs or even hear himself as he slipped from the last grips of reality and spiraled into complete and utter fantasy.

That was the last push, Sherlock suddenly couldn't handle anymore and was shifting his bum so fiercely down and onto John's hands that he might have broken the couch. Gritting his teeth and letting pleasure consume him, he tensed the muscles in his arse, legs, and stomach and came, hard, his evidence coating both him and John in droplets. His hips locked for a few seconds, holding Sherlock up with John still inside him, but his exhaustion kicked in and fell back onto the couch, completely spent.

John removed his fingers and left Sherlock feeling empty, but he was soon met with a warm body next to him and kisses placed along his neck. They rested there for a few moments, the feeling in Sherlock's limbs slowly coming back. His arse felt sore and his throat hurt, but he was satisfied once again, and John spoke softly to him.

"Wow, Sherlock."

"Hm?" Was all he could say.

"You lasted so much sodding longer than I expected you to."

Sherlock rolled his face toward the sound of John's voice and pursed his lips lightly. They were met and kissed before he finally found his words. "I didn't want it to end."

"It was brilliant, as always." John snuggled closer, his legs tucking between Sherlock's. 

"Is that what it's like?"

"What?"

"Sex?

"Uh… If you do it right."

"Did we do it right?"

"Based on your screams, I would say so."

Sherlock playfully nudged John's head with his shoulder, but he laced his fingers through John's sincerely. "I wasn't screaming."

"Tell that to our neighbors."

Sherlock tucked himself in, closer to John, the heat of his skin providing a sweet warmth. "Mrs. Hudson's assumptions are surely proven now." John tightened his legs and Sherlock realized that he'd gone an entire session without orgasming. "Wait," he said, his lips still tender. "What about you? Did you get to - "

"I'm fine. I was a teenager once, you know. I know how to calm myself down."

"John," Sherlock directed the conversation to a different branch by saying his name shortly, as he often did, "If that's what it's like with just your mouth and hands, what's it like with… You know?"

The doctor rolled in closer, if that were even possible due to their cramped conditions on the couch. "Bloody fantastic, that's what it is."

 _Then I'm excited._ Sherlock thought. They were silent for a few minutes after that, and Sherlock turned to watch John doze lightly on his shoulder. He looked content, pleased with his life. His eyes and lips and nose were all there, completely John Watson and completely happy on his shoulder. Sherlock noted how wonderfully attractive he was in his mind, but he also documented how generous and fulfilling he was as a lover. John put Sherlock's needs first, and he would stop immediately if he asked. Not that he ever had to. Everything John told him proved to be true, especially that about the anal play.

Sherlock shifted his bum against the couch, noticing its wet soreness, but it just made him smile. John was so good to him, taking his time, touching him carefully. Sherlock was sure he was fantastic at everything he attempted, although he had nobody else to base it on. He didn't want to, though. He just wanted John to be there, forever. He wanted to lie with John, naked, exposed, and exhausted, to anyone who may walk into the flat, forever. He wanted it all and he had it all.

He was surprised he hadn't messed it up yet, but it seemed John didn't think he ever could. Sherlock kissed his forehead now, and nestled his head close, closing his own eyes. 

 _This one's mine,_ he thought, _this one's mine, for as long as he'll have me… and I am so ridiculously, dangerously, hopelessly in love with him._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JOHN WATSON EATS ASS!


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tucked his hands under his neck and watched as Sherlock began to look less like a man and more like a work of art as he breathed calmly.

John had Sherlock wrapped around him, curly brunet head on his shoulder, as he scrambled eggs in the kitchen. After they'd taken a small nap, they'd risen from the couch, washed themselves, dressed, and watched trashy television. After three episodes of bachelorettes receiving their roses and causing the others to cry, Sherlock played the violin and John read, passing time as they usually did. Around nine they decided they were hungry for dinner. They both disliked the idea of more take-out, so John rummaged through the kitchen. He didn't find anything really substantial to cook, so he cracked a few eggs. 

Still rather tired from the events of earlier, Sherlock dozed on John. Rousing with the movement of John's arms in fixing dinner, he spoke into John's jumper.

"Are the eggs done?"

John huffed a laugh, "Yes, no thanks to you."

"My apologies, John, I assumed I was allowed to recuperate from earlier this evening."

He shrugged Sherlock off his shoulder lightly and scraped the yellow breakfast food onto two plates. He added salt and pepper to his and passed the other to Sherlock. "That was hours ago. Here, eat and you'll feel better."

Sherlock took the plate, added a touch of salt, and disappeared through the kitchen and into the bedroom. John followed suit, rolling his eyes. He'd gotten use to Sherlock's ridiculous tendencies, but they still were cause for slight complaint. Turning off the light on his way out, John found Sherlock cross legged on the bed, eating the eggs ravenously. "Hungry?"

"Shut up." He scooted his bum backwards so John could sit in front of him, which he did. He struggled to cross his legs like Sherlock, but he finally figured it out and smiled at his flatmate. 

They ate quietly, the bedroom dark, save for the beside lamp. There was a calming peace about sitting there with each other, and both of the men noted it. When John finished his dinner, he set the bowl on the nightstand and scurried to open the window.

"Why do you always do that?" Sherlock asked, scraping the last bit of his eggs off his fork and setting his plate on John's.

"Do what? Open the window? I just like fresh air."

"But it'll get cold." Sherlock reached for the water bottle he kept beside the bed. He drank some to rinse his mouth.

"So we'll get under the covers. You're such a baby sometimes, you know."

"Yes, but you like me."

"That is definitely true." John fluffed the blinds a bit and returned to the bed. Sherlock handed him the bottle. He took a drink and set it down, leaning over Sherlock. Sherlock grabbed him as he was reaching away and held him in his arms, pulling John down on top of him. He rolled to the side and pushed John away as he rustled to get under the covers. He shimmied around for a few seconds before dramatically nuzzling his head into his pillow and closing his eyes. John carefully sunk himself down under the covers as well, lying his head besides Sherlock's. He tucked his hands under his neck and watched as Sherlock began to look less like a man and more like a work of art as he breathed calmly. "You're not going to bed, are you?" John whispered. _Stay awake with me a little longer. When I'm asleep I forget that you're real._

Without opening his eyes, Sherlock said, "No, just resting."

"Alright."

Taking a moment to watch him, John lost himself in the curve of Sherlock's lips and the curl of his bangs. His skin glowed in the low lighting and his mouth was turned up at the corners. John closed his own eyes and opened them after a few seconds, just to check that Sherlock was still beside him. John crinkled his eyes in a smile when he found that indeed, Sherlock was still there. He still questioned it sometimes, since Sherlock had been so distant and unreachable for too long, and now he was here: touchable, kissable, human. 

Breaking the silence, Sherlock snarked lightly. "Stop it."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're staring at me."

"Yes, I am." 

Finally peeking through heavy lids, Sherlock's gaze directly focused onto John's, a dark blue stare that was green earlier that day. John's breath hitched. "Sherlock, did you know that your eyes change color?"

"Do they? What color are they now?" 

"The color of a deep lake."

Sherlock scoffed, "If that's your best attempt at romantic pillow talk, I'm going to have to ask you redo it."

John swallowed and forced himself to look directly into Sherlock's eyes, "Fine. Sherlock, sometimes your stare catches me so off guard with its intensity that I can't remember how to look away. You're _so_ breathtaking, and every moment I have with you, I wonder how that came to be. I wonder how a sad bloke like me is allowed to sleep next to you and touch you and be your first shag. I wonder why we hadn't figured it out sooner, but I never regret any of it, before this, because you are so magnificent and I have you now and that's enough for me. It's such a struggle for me to comprehend, you, us, but I wouldn't want it any other way. I want to cook eggs for you and watch bad reality shows with you and kiss you all the time. I want to walk around London and shout, 'Everyone, this sod over here is Sherlock Holmes, and for some reason, he called me his boyfriend! And guess what? I'm fucking pleased as apple pie about that!' In all honesty, Sherlock, I'm still wondering when I'll wake up. Wake up, John, this is a dream. Wake up!" He lifted a hand from underneath his neck and pinched his own cheek. He grimaced at the pain but resumed his speech when he returned to looking at Sherlock. "But you're still here. I'm awake. I haven't been awake for the majority of my life; at home, at school, even during the war. I felt like I was living as someone named John Watson, but that he wasn't me. It was his decision to become a doctor, but I was receiving all the scars and painful memories. I saw horrific things, I did, but I couldn't do anything to stop it. When I was shot, I thought it was over, and when I came back, I almost wanted it to be. And then I met you and you're like some sort of ridiculous maniac dream and I'm so goddamn lucky. I'm so lucky that you're you, every bit of you, and I don't want you to ever hate any of it. 

"So yes, your eyes change color and they're here, now, and I can't look away. They're that of a deep lake, because that's what you are. You're some mysterious lake creature and you're beside me, next to me, looking at me as if I'm some little boy happily skipping stones across your glassy surface. But I know that I've already jumped in, Sherlock. I'm not just skimming the surface anymore. I want to be all in, with this. I want to stay like this, if you'll take me." _Now if that doesn't sound like an "I love you," then I don't know what does._

* * *

Sherlock looked upon John as he breathed through his nose, slightly flustered. He was struggling to maintain eye contact. Sherlock's throat was dry with surprise at hearing John's confession. Sherlock listened to every word that he said, and each one soaked into his skin and warmed his being. John was just as passionate as him, and Sherlock could barely contain his love, sure that it was obvious in his eyes. The stunned man tested his own timid waters, "That sounds like a proposal, John."

"Maybe it is."

 _John…_ "John… Your words are bandages and I'm a wound. That is utterly ridiculous of me to say, but I'm trying desperately hard. John, I also had felt less than alive for the majority of my life. I've dealt with suicide and hopelessness in the past, since it was nearly inevitable. With a mind like mine and Mycroft's, life seemed dull. I can _see_ things. Some things I don't want to see. I can see why the sidewalk is green in some places, and I can see you in bed beside me now. I see and observe and take in everything, eventually filling myself up with equations and facts. Despite this vast knowledge, I was so clouded by my own shell that I'd created that I never thought I'd be able to understand anything outside of science and math. But you wandered into that lab and were amazed at my deduction of you, not upset, and I knew that you were someone that I could trust. I knew that this man, this man with the worn eyes and the funny smile, would be important to me. It took me a long time to see a lot of things, but with you, it was always so simple. As complicated as the 'game' was that we played, I never questioned the integrity of your character and the effect you had on me.

"I know I'm not normal. I know I'm rather sociopathic. But you don't care. You look at me like I'm some sort of graceful dream, and I see only bravery and adoration when I look back at you. John, I want to be everything you want and everything you need. I want you to teach me how the world works, that which I don't know, and I want you to hold my hand and prove to me that sentiment isn't a mistake. For it seems all my life I've been taught that emotion makes a man weak, and here you are, the strongest man I've ever known, feeling more than anyone. You mean so much to me, more than just a helpful flatmate or sarcastic friend. You're my exception to everything I never thought I'd understand. And that might sound like it just means sex, but it's more. You are the only man to ever make me feel worthy. You're the only one to show me that my incredible skill can be both pretentious _and_ brilliant. You're the only one to ever take your time with me, and while I constantly believe you'll turn around and cast me aside, you, just now, have told me that you won't. You want to stay with me. You're the only one to ever want to stay with me. And I want to stay with you. I don't want to ever go back to loneliness, or self-hate, or drugs. I want to solve crimes with you and come home and eat your cooking, I want to kiss you every day, everywhere, so I can be assured that you'll always remember me through your skin… not that you're going anywhere. I just want our lives to be so tangled that we'll never have a reason to pull them apart. I want to stay like this, too, if you'll take me."

"Sherlock…"

"And I know I act like I don't know about love, but with you, it makes sense. John, please know that although I can't bring myself to say the exact words to assure you of that, know that that's what my intent is. Everything that those words entail hold true for me, but I've never said them in my life, not even to Redbeard, so forgive me if I can't say them now. Know that I want to." 

John brought his face close, compressing the inches between their lips until they touched. He stayed like that for quite a while, unmoving, just proving to Sherlock that here is where he'd like to stay. When he did pull back, he spoke very quietly but the weight of the words was loud. 

"I feel the same. That - that thing, that you mean. I mean it, too. I realized I felt it when I was at the motel."

"John."

"…What about you? When did you figure it out?"

Sherlock let himself smile, finally, wide and broad. "Right before you kissed me. But I sort of feel like I knew it all along."

"We have _great_ timing, huh?"

"Better late than never."

"Definitely."

"Come over here." Sherlock propped himself up, set his pillows against the headboard, and extended his arms. John crawled into them and rested his head on Sherlock's chest. He rested his hand beside his face and Sherlock laced his fingers through it, turning his hand so he could fit into John's like puzzle pieces. 

Sherlock reached over and clicked off the beside lamp. They snuggled in deeper in the dark, the open window causing a cold that they could hide from in each other.

"Tell me about your favorite things," John said quietly.

"Well, you. And I like figuring out problems. And I like making fun of Mycroft. I even like myself, sometimes, right when you look at me." Sherlock squeezed John's hand.

"More."

"I like when you tell me about sex and the way you protect me. I like watching you blog. I like the way you always wear jumpers as if you'll never get used to the cold. And I like your nose."

"Sherlock, they all can't be about me."

"Fine. I like dancing. And I like seeing operas, and I like dark chocolate. I like Redbeard and Stephen King novels. I like Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and I like running after bad cabbies. … What else is there? Take-out? I like being here, with you, in the dark. My favorite things are just things that you wouldn't expect me to like. Like pirates and playing make-believe. What about you? What are your favorite things?"

"My favorite things are lilacs and big cats."

Sherlock laughed. "Big cats?"

"Lions, cheetahs, tigers. Those big cats."

"Go on."

"I like musicals and white chocolate. I like the way you crinkle your nose when you dislike someone and the way your cheeks spread into lines when you smile at me. I like playing rugby and little kids. Sometimes, anyway. Let's see… I think my favorite thing of all is the day I met you."

"That doesn't count."

"'Course it does. _'Course_ it does. I like that it was like a magic night. I was pulled into this new life right when I was giving up on my own. That's my favorite thing, that you saved me."

Sherlock was silent for a moment before he spoke, low and deep. "I wish I could say it right now." 

"So say it."

"It."

"Funny."

Sherlock just lifted their hands and softly kissed the back of John's. "Anyway, hm… tell me about your first 'crush.'"

"Why do you want to hear about something like that?"

"Because I want to know you. Tell me."

"Alright, you asked for it. I was little and her name was Janet. She had this long black hair and I'd always tug it, and she slapped me every time I did it. I thought it was playful, at first, but then one day after school, she told me to climb up a tree with her. I did."

"Did she tell you she liked you?"

"No, actually, she slapped me so hard I fell out of the tree. She just wanted everyone to be able to see when she did it. The tree wasn't that high, so I just got scraped up. It was well deserved, though, I was a bit of a prick to her."

"A bit?"

"Fuck, fine, a _genuine_ five-year-old arsehole. Now you. Tell me about yours. And don't say it was me because I know that's a lie."

"Actually, it's not you. One of the few things that you weren't the first of. I was in university and it was fleeting. Nothing ever happened, I barely talked to him. He was a grade younger than me but he was _great._ "

"Don't be so eager to make me jealous, now. What was his name?"

"Victor. He had dark skin and black hair and this brilliant smile. I never told him how I felt, mostly because I didn't know what I was feeling. I didn't want to kiss him or anything, I just thought he was really great at math. He was handsome, that was obvious, but not like you."

"Nice save."

"Thanks. Actually, speaking of thanks, I want to thank you properly."

John began making circles in Sherlock's palm with his thumb. "For what, in particular?"

"For the sex. I know that some people find it tedious and unhygienic, and I wanted to thank you for being so comforting and not making a big deal out of it, or rather, my lack of it. I know it's more of a casual thing for you, and I hope that whatever we do has… reverence."

"Of course it does, Sherlock. Everything that we do isn't just fun, it's important. It means the world to me that I'm your exception. And as loud and ridiculous and hot as we make it, I always feel it's more…"

"Passionate?"

"Exactly. It's passionate for us. And I'm so excited to continue trying it out with you." John hesitated before speaking again. "Actually, I wanted to go shopping tomorrow."

Sherlock's stomach dropped. _Is he going to put me in a catsuit next?_ "…For what?"

"Lube. And condoms. I want to go out as a couple to buy them. To prove to you that I'm serious about it and I don't care if people look at us strangely."

"You don't have to prove anything to me anymore. But wait, condoms? I assume both of us are unable to get pregnant, and I've found upon further inspection that neither of us are HIV positive."

"We're not. But they're good for quickies in the parking lot of Scotland Yard. Makes for easy clean-up."

"For God's sakes, John!"

John sat up now. He looked cheery and Sherlock was eyeing him curiously. "Hey, I can't help when I want you. When the mood strikes… 'Course, you have to be in the mood, too."

Sherlock dropped his gaze to John's crotch, his thin pajama bottoms doing little to hide his excitement. "Are you in the mood now?"

"To be fair, you _are_ pretty damn irresistible." John inched forward expectantly.

"John," Sherlock tried to calm him down with a gentle kiss, his hands sliding down John's arms. "Switch places with me."

His smug grin fell. "No, I'm sorry, you don't have to - "

Once again shutting him up with a kiss, Sherlock said, "I _want_ to. You give me so much. I want to show you what it means to me."

"Sherlock, you don't owe me sex." John looked at Sherlock seriously. Hearing him say that only increased the man's respect for John, but he just nodded his head and crawled forward.

"True, I don't. I do want to try something, though. Just lie back."

John did as he was told, scrambling to prop himself up on the headboard as Sherlock had. Sherlock turned around as he rested on his knees and leaned in to kiss him.

* * *

As always, Sherlock's lips were soft and plush, and John melted under his careful touch. He was grateful that Sherlock appreciated how passionate he tried to be; he would never forgive himself if Sherlock secretly hadn't been okay with everything they'd done.

John was still high off the confessions from earlier, and as Sherlock deepened the kiss, he recalled what he'd meant. _Sherlock loves me. And I love him. And we've agreed to stay together._

Sherlock moved down from John's lips and to his neck, where he kissed tenderly. He then lay himself down on the bed, his long legs spilling off the end. He nestled himself between John's thighs and pushed them apart.

Mouthing the clothed tip of John's cock, Sherlock turned his head and got used to the shape and length of it. He then parted his plump lips and pulled the hem of John's pajamas down. He took no time in tugging the elastic band of his pants down over it as well, exposing him in the darkness of the bedroom. He looked at down at John's erection, then back up at John, before he drew it into his mouth.

John looked on, Sherlock's delicious pretty pink mouth wrapped tightly around him, his cheekbones more prominent as he sucked in. John let his head fall back, a sweet pleasure making him sigh.

 _I will never get over this,_ he thought, Sherlock's deep eyes flicking up at him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Watson's favorite things are lilacs and big cats. Can that please be a thing? Like will someone make me a shirt of that, or something? 
> 
> omfg i'm laughing


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The room around them was still and calm, but Sherlock was spinning.

Sherlock had completed the job passionately, drawing John's pleasure out long into the night. They'd then fallen asleep, both content and warm, and had woken up just in time to hear Mrs. Hudson come through the kitchen. 

"Boys," she said, "Sorry I haven't visited in ages, I was rendezvousing with the beau. Boys?"

"We're in here, Mrs. Hudson," John called from over Sherlock's shoulder. It received him a kiss on the brow from behind him.

"Can I come in?"

"Why not…" Sherlock groaned.

The woman opened the bedroom door and walked in. She had the kettle in her hand, the other on her hip. John peeked over Sherlock's arm and noticed that she was wearing a very flattering blue blouse. "Aw, look at you two," she said. "I'm glad you worked it out, Sherlock. I always knew you'd get together!"

"Yes, you made that quite obvious. Well, I suppose I ought to introduce you. Mrs. Hudson, this is my boyfriend, Sherlock." John said sarcastically. He liked the way it sounded, though, introducing him like that.

"Morning, nice to meet you, I'm a little tangled up at the moment." Sherlock said, his head buried in John's neck, his legs twined in his, his arms wrapping in all angles around his torso. 

She was beaming. "Oh! I'm just so happy! Ah, don't listen to me - you must be even happier."

"Yes. We are." John turned his face and kissed the only bit he could reach, Sherlock's right cheekbone.

"I'll let you two lovebirds wake up a bit, but I'll put the kettle on anyway." She disappeared, complimenting her impeccable sense of matchmaking, her smug, high voice carrying out with her.

"Come on, get up." John said as he tried to escape Sherlock's arms.

"You know, logically, we don't actually _have_ to. If you were planning on taking us to the general store after lunch, we don't really have any prior engagements before that. We could just lounge around 'til then."

John contemplated this. "True, but last time we tried that, we both got sore and grumpy. How's your bum?"

"Still hurts a little. Not so much, though."

"Good." John nestled himself closer. He supposed they didn't have to get up _right_ away…

* * *

The store had a few customers milling about it, but Sherlock and John looked the most conspicuous. Sherlock's sweeping charcoal coat juxtaposed the whites and browns of the aisles, while John brought attention to his intimidating height. That didn't stop them, though, and John led Sherlock through the aisles and settled at that with deodorant. 

"They're going to know." Sherlock said as John flipped a hand through the various types of condoms.

"Oh, these are good. Who're going to know what?"

"The cashier. She's going to know it's for us."

"So what? Here, get that blue bottle on your left. Good." 

"So… she's going to know."

"And that's a problem why? You know what, I want to get some snacks while we're here."

"Because she's going to know!" Sherlock tried to keep his voice down, but he was failing. The mother and her son in the aisle over peeked around the corner but hustled away as Sherlock glared at them.

John turned to Sherlock. He was visibly distressed, but John held the condoms and lube proudly. "Sherlock, people have sex. It's something that happens. Most adults are aware of this, and if they work somewhere where they have sixteen different brands of condoms - these are the best, by the way - they know how to deal with it. And even if she did judge, too bad for her, she's not the one taking you home. Come on, I want to get candy."

"John!"

"Teenagers come in here all the time, alone, too. How awkward do you think it is for them? She probably thinks, 'Aw, look, they think they're going to get laid.' But now you're here, she'll probably just be like 'Damn, I wish I was that short, stubby guy.'"

Sherlock followed John through the store and into the snack aisle. "You're not stubby."

"It doesn't matter. Anyway, she might just think I've taken my friend with me to get condoms for my girlfriend or something." John mindlessly looked over his options.

"And if she really thinks that?"

"She can go home and fuck herself thinking about it. Ooh, white chocolate. You want to get something?"

"No." But Sherlock had already reached for the peanut dark chocolate covered M&M's. 

John led them over to the cashier, where the young blonde worker was snapping her pink bubblegum. She smiled at John and glanced over to Sherlock, her shimmery lips falling open slightly. 

Muttering under his breath before they were close enough for her to hear, John said, "Bitch, back off." Sherlock smirked.

"Hi." She chirped, grabbing her scanner. John set the candy, lube, and condoms down on the belt. Sherlock found himself incredibly nervous. "This all?"

"Yes please. Having a good day?" She scanned the products, grinning slightly as she covered the condoms. She picked up the box and shook it flirtatiously before returning it to the belt.

"Good choice, solid brand. Yeah, I s'pose. I'm ready to get the hell out of here, if you want to know the truth." She clicked a pink nail over the cash register and told John the total. He pulled a bill from his wallet and covered it. "You want a bag?" 

Sherlock had wrapped his arm around John's and squeezed it for support throughout the transaction. He pretended he hadn't noticed. "No, I think we'll be okay. This one has deep pockets." He nodded to Sherlock, who tightened his grip. The cashier smacked her gum.

"Ah, you're lucky, he's quite fit. Anyway, here's your change." John took the remaining money and sloppily added them to his wallet. He reached around Sherlock and slipped the products into his pockets, who seemed phased by the woman's compliment at him. "You two have fun now!" She said as John turned. He waved.

Once out of the store, John keeled over in laughter. Sherlock was still stunned. 

"Why are you laughing?" he asked.

"Because you looked so bloody scared! You were so worried, even after she…" John interrupted himself with a laugh. "She was fine, Sherlock. She didn't care. She was really nice."

Sherlock just pulled John forward and back to the main road. John snickered occasionally as they walked back to Baker Street, and by the time their beloved Mrs. Hudson's store had come into view, Sherlock was snickering as well.

* * *

It was almost eleven by the time John and Sherlock had finally moved their fooling around into the bedroom. They were giving each other hot kisses over all of the skin that was exposed, Sherlock on top of John, pushing his knee up and into his crotch. 

They were both antsy all day, aware of what was to happen when night fell. However, Sherlock had decided to compose a very high, springy violin song to express his excitement, and John had to wait patiently until he was done. He kept asking Sherlock if he was alright, if he was ready, if he was okay, if he knew it'd hurt, if he really wanted to - and as much as Sherlock was jittery, he'd always said yes when John asked. John believed him. 

So there they were, in Sherlock's dark bedroom, rocking, moving silhouettes. John was the first to pull back and speak, his hips already eager to meet Sherlock's. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"John, I've wanted all of this for so long. Don't deny me that pleasure now that we're here."

He almost laughed at that. "Fine, just checking." 

Sherlock returned his mouth to John's and worked on taking his jumper off. John tried to unbutton Sherlock's dress shirt as well, his fingers suddenly tremulous. Sherlock stopped the kiss and looked down at John's hands. He steadied them with his own. "Are you nervous?"

"Well, kind of."

"Why should _you_ be nervous?"

John took a deep breath and continued working on Sherlock's buttons as he spoke. "Because I want it to be good. And I've been waiting just as long, if not longer, you know. From the first time I saw you, actually."

Sherlock helped John unbutton the remaining clasps and pulled his own shirt off. He reached over John and set it, folded, on the nightstand. "You'll be fine, John. It's going to be fine. It'll be perfect."

The men didn't speak again after that. They resumed their slow and tortuous undressing, until nothing was left but John's Christmas socks. Sherlock tried to hide his laughter in his arm, but it was hopeless, and John just took the socks off and hit him playfully with them before tossing them to the ground. Sherlock rolled off John and onto his back, John immediately returning to kissing him every where. His first hickies were fading, but he touched them up with a bitemark or two, Sherlock responding with a loud exhale. He clawed at John's back and spread his thighs under him, shifting to feel John's erection on his. 

They continued like that for a while, just grinding, kissing, drawing out the simple, coiling pleasure for as long as Sherlock allowed it. Their bare skin was offset, John's a beige peach while Sherlock's was alabaster and glowing. The moonlight filtered in through the open window, and the men moved in the dark as one.

Sherlock was grinding up into John greedily, John's touch the only drug he'd ever need. He was trying desperately hard not to come early, and he had to move his hips away to calm himself. John understood that movement as easily as if Sherlock had said something, and he let Sherlock's body speak for itself as he slid himself down Sherlock's torso and settled between his thighs.

He spread his legs expectantly, the view of John looking up at him from between them causing a sharp twist in his gut. John dropped his gaze from Sherlock's and repeated what they'd done the day before. Sherlock was writhing under John's mouth, his tongue replacing the slight soreness with wet pleasure. John switched from Sherlock's cock and his arsehole mercilessly, but he always pulled back when Sherlock's body couldn't handle any more stimulation. 

John denied himself his own satisfaction as he readied Sherlock, knowing soon enough that he'd be head-over-heels in pleasure. He fingered Sherlock like he had before, but this time it was achingly slow. He was kissing Sherlock tenderly as he rolled his body under John, his hands working in and out of Sherlock. John only pulled away to reach over Sherlock and open the bedside drawer, where he withdrew the blue bottle of lubrication they'd bought earlier that day.

Sherlock's gaze followed as John uncapped the bottle and removed the protective plastic. He found himself smiling fondly as John struggled to open it, his brow furrowed in concentration. Once he did get it, though, he looked down at Sherlock and crinkled his nose as a silent insult. Sherlock just smiled as he lifted himself to kiss John's mouth, pulling his head down with a hand at the back of his neck. They continued the kiss until John had to catch his breath and rest his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder. 

The bottle was still in his hand as he sat up on his knees and turned his attention to it. He looked from the lube to Sherlock, at which, the detective spread his legs. John squeezed a generous amount of the slippery liquid into his palm and capped it. He scooped two fingers into it and applied it to Sherlock's opening. It was cold and Sherlock tensed, but John continued to add the rest until Sherlock was completely coated. The remaining lube he palmed onto himself

The genius closed his eyes, expecting a sharp pain. However, what he got instead were John's fingers again, pushing the lubrication deep inside him. It was soothing and caused him to slip in and out easily. John pumped his fingers until Sherlock was squirming and breathing heavily, his body craning into John's touch. He was left empty when John withdrew his hands, yet he braced himself mentally for when he was full once more.

He then positioned himself above Sherlock, guiding his thighs apart and draping them over his own. He looked into Sherlock's eyes. They weren't the deep blue they'd been before, nor were they the fiery green they were when he solved a case. They now were an opaque turquoise and held quite a bit of worry in them. John bent over and rested his forehead to Sherlock's, their noses almost touching. He reached for Sherlock's hands by his sides and entwined his fingers into each of them. Sherlock grasped back firmly. 

Shifting his hips so they were at Sherlock's opening, he tightened his grip on Sherlock's hands and pressed on. The first few inches were fine, and John slipped in easily. However, once he pushed deeper, he noted the pained gasp and Sherlock's furrowed brow. He kissed Sherlock's forehead and tightened his hands. He pushed through, slowly and carefully slipping down to the base. 

Sherlock sheathed him tightly, and upon noting his anguished face at the painful stretch, he took a moment to let Sherlock relax underneath him. 

John breathed to calm himself down as well; Sherlock was wet and pulsing around him, the lack of condom causing John to feel every wonderful inch. He looked upon Sherlock with an endless amount of respect and love. He was grimacing, gritting his teeth, bearing down on the strange feeling. John knew that the lubrication and earlier preparation had helped tremendously, but Sherlock's watering eyes caused him to remember how new it all was for him. It almost made him cry, really, Sherlock's strength and acceptance. 

Sherlock was still in pain, but it was settling and mixing with a warm fullness he felt deep in his stomach. Upon his vision clearing with the escape of a few stray tears, Sherlock found John looking at him with concern. He tried to smile sincerely and he must have succeeded, because John smiled back and kissed him softly.

Finally shifting his hips back slowly, John pulled out slightly and pushed back in. Sherlock was appreciating the strange feeling, his face falling back into serenity. John didn't let go of Sherlock's hands as he ground and rolled his hips, the lube catching up to them and causing him to glide in and out with ease. 

The room around them was still and calm, but Sherlock was spinning. John gyrated himself into him slowly, the dip in his back deepening as he plunged, his shoulder blades shifting under his tight skin as he bowed his head and kissed Sherlock's cheeks and forehead. 

The men were a sight, Sherlock's slender calves now raising to hook around John's hips, John's hands still resting in Sherlock's, pressing them into the bed for support. The night blanketed them in navy and John gradually built up the rhythm from gentle to passionate, a deep pleasure entwining both of them.

* * *

The pain had been replaced with a full sensation, and Sherlock felt his body heat as John rocked into him. It wasn't the same insatiable pleasure he'd felt the day before, and Sherlock reveled in the serene rocking.

This one was slow, close, and fervent. John was so near, his chest brushing Sherlock's with his movements. Every bit of skin was sizzling, every breath long and solid, every thrust straining and earnest. They danced another dance, and Sherlock closed his eyes and swore he'd never live another day second-guessing the proof of John's devotion. He felt his release come towards him slowly, and it built in him like a swirl of steam, inevitably warming and prickling his core.

Sherlock hummed a moan, his legs tightening around John's hips. He noticed himself moving into John's thrusts, clinging to John's hands and pulling them into the mattress. He burned with addiction, John's steady push careening him over the edge of reason.

He wanted nothing but to feel John with him forever, and he found that the only conscious thought he could repeat in his head, besides John's name, was _I am a lake and John Watson is my basin._

* * *

John let himself soak in the waves of content and gratification that glazed over him. He noted that it was different as well, a constant contracting and expanding that resulted in a unfathomable comfort. 

Sherlock was beneath John, accepting him, churning and trembling with every instance, his body convulsing around him. He felt that there was something undeniably beautiful in their act, and he was sure both of them knew it. There was no screaming, no slapping; it was just him and Sherlock. They were finally linked.

His detective was pushing his rear into John, and the building pressure was tortuous and passionate as John neared his climax.

He pressed his lips into Sherlock's and rolled his back again, conspiring against Sherlock's skin. He pushed harder, deeper, and he received a more thorough reaction. Sherlock was tightening around him and his soft breaths were now heavy and contained an underlying sound of his unmistakable voice. 

John called to Sherlock, but his throat trapped the words and he only could muse them to himself. _All of this… I want it. Forever._

Tensing and clenching beneath him, Sherlock was beginning to unhinge. John let himself go as he felt Sherlock squeeze his fingers. Pleasure coated him and he pushed firmly up into Sherlock, brushing the center that made Sherlock halt and come. John crumbled and came undone inside him, the paralyzing release trapping them both in an unspoken pledge. 

They eventually sunk forward in fatigue, John letting his head rest in the curve of Sherlock's neck. After a moment of dozing, John pushed himself away from Sherlock and clambered to situate himself under the covers of the bed. Sherlock did the same.

Blindly finding each other in the dark, John and Sherlock touched once again, their arms winding through any empty space and tugging their bare skin to meet. They slept like that: content and safe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were to think that I was going to make John and Sherlock's first time anything but ridiculously passionate, you would have been mistaken.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John found himself becoming more entranced by the characters and the curious plot, but not so much as Sherlock, who was mouthing along to some of the lines.

John and Sherlock had found that sex suited them well. Although it took a day or two for Sherlock to heal, they never went a day without practicing some form of it. They switched from lazy morning sex to heady midnight sex. They used it to calm down, to celebrate, or simply just because. Sherlock always received, but John was given as much as he gave. 

Their lives haven't changed much otherwise. Sherlock was still rude and tired at ridiculous hours, and John still found himself unable to finish any book he picked up. John continued to teach Sherlock how to cook, and Sherlock told John of ways to memorize and calculate. 

Some nights they curled up like koalas, and others, they slept on polar opposite sides of the bed, needy for space. John had seemed to outgrow his restraint on speaking romantically, and Sherlock found it was easy to accept his compliments. Of course, they hadn't officially said what they were meaning to, but it didn't matter. They felt it, and that was enough. 

A week had passed and Lestrade had given them cases as he'd promised. Now that the news of their relationship had spread to Scotland Yard, they only proved it further by flirting at crime scenes and placing quick kisses on each other's faces when Donovan looked away. If she did catch them, however, her sneer turned into a small smile and she resumed her business. 

They went on dates and Angelo greeted them happily each time. John always ordered the same thing, and Sherlock only ever ate off his plate.

Even Mycroft had warmed to the idea of double dating with Lestrade, although the brothers never seemed to get around to it.

John and Sherlock were as content as could be, and they entered the flat excitedly after a particularly thrilling case. Sherlock tore his jacket and scarf off, suddenly buzzing with internal heat.

"What a fantastic chase!" he said as he pulled John into him and flopped into the nearest chair. 

"You mean running after a drunken DJ?"

"Of course I mean that, where have you been?" Sherlock bit John's nose.

He bit back. "Right here, you twat."

"I'm glad to be back, though."

"Me too. I think we definitely needed a hiatus, but I was eager to take on a case."

John squirmed to leave Sherlock's lap, eventually standing up and removing his coat. "What do you want to do tonight?"

"I don't know. I'm rather high."

Turning a skeptical eye at him, John responded, "You mean because of the case?"

"No, John, because of the heroin. Don't look at me like that, you know I'm joking."

He traveled to the kitchen to fetch himself a glass of water, "Well don't joke about it. I get what you mean, though, I feel buzzed."

Sherlock leapt from the chair and followed him. John had filled a glass and barely took one sip before Sherlock was behind him, eagerly kissing his neck and running his hands down his stomach and under his shirt. Sherlock moaned dramatically into John's ear in hopes of turning him on, but it worked, and soon John had set the glass forcefully on the table and spun around, responding to Sherlock's prompt eagerly.

They both became aroused rather quickly, the thrill of the chase leaving them coursing with energy.

Pushing him against the counter, Sherlock channeled his high into a snog, lifting John's shirt up and running his hands over his muscles. John returned the affections by cupping Sherlock's arse and pressing himself down onto Sherlock's thigh.

Breathy moans and eager touches filled the kitchen with heat, and John found himself reaching around Sherlock's hips and unbuckling his dress pants enthusiastically. However, the forceful action was well received by the detective, and he slid both hands deeper into John's shirt and swept his hands further up, flaring out his fingers and feeling his pectorals. 

Sherlock nipped at John's ear and mouthed his neck with searing ferocity. Squeezing Sherlock's rear, his lips lightened and brushed his skin as they parted to speak. He pleaded John's name, a sign that he was impatient and wanted to be taken.

"In the kitchen?" John asked, his voice tremulous and husky. Sherlock rubbed his knee further into John's groin and responded thoroughly. John took his groan of consent as a pass to spin himself around Sherlock and push him up against the counter sharply.

Gripping the windowsill with one hand and holding himself up with the other, Sherlock spread his thighs in a standing position. John was eagerly rubbing himself on Sherlock through his clothes, reaching his hands into his trousers and pulling them down.

He didn't stop slipping Sherlock's trousers lower until the entirety of his round rear was exposed. John took no time in unbuckling his own pants and pulling himself out. 

Sherlock jutted forward, his hips touching the cold counter, his cock rubbing into the smooth tile. John had spat on his fingers and had pressed them into Sherlock at this point, mercilessly pulling out and adding more spit while his other hand gripped Sherlock's slender waist over his suit jacket.

Too anxious to undress, John pushed his cock into Sherlock's wet opening, immediately pumping as if time would run out. He didn't relinquish his thrusts, Sherlock jumping quickly to loud moans and rhythmic thuds as his knees pushed into the cupboard under the counter. 

Unforgiving in his movements, John let himself take Sherlock more roughly than he would have if they weren't so eager. He now had both his hands on Sherlock's waist as he thrusted in and out of him, Sherlock's trousers slipping lower with the activity.

Eventually the heady pleasure took over, both John and Sherlock becoming controlled by their lust and the undeniable rush of kitchen sex. Sherlock came first, slamming his fist into the counter and gripping the sill, curses and breaths escaping him at a ridiculous volume. John felt Sherlock clench and shudder and he let his own orgasm rack through him, bucking deep into his partner.

Paralyzed, John took a moment to ride out the last of his shivers before slumping forward and releasing Sherlock's waist. The detective also went weak, his knees dipping as he brought himself lower to the counter.

The act itself had taken no less than a few minutes, the rough and horny nature of both the adrenaline-coursing men leaving them satisfied with the result. John exhaled a laugh and smiled, noting how his glass of water had tipped and spilt onto the floor with the hard movement of their quick shag.

* * *

Of course, John and Sherlock were back on the couch, entangled in blankets and legs, within a matter of moments. John had simply lifted himself off Sherlock, said, "That was fun," and helped cover up Sherlock's bottom by buttoning his pants for him. They'd then retreated into their rooms and changed into their pajamas and had argued across the flat about which movie to watch. It was Sherlock's turn to pick, and he chose Hitchcock's _Vertigo_ from his personal collection. They'd had to move the TV to face the couch, but Sherlock seemed extremely eager to watch and he didn't mind setting it up. He slipped the DVD in and bounced back, curling up with John in his lap, the green plaid blanket pulled over them.

The DVD title screen blared and John tightened around Sherlock's legs. "Sherlock," he said.

"Hm?"

"What's this movie about?"

Sherlock took his nose off John's cheek to look at him incredulously. "You must be joking."

John chuckled, "No, I'm not. Tell me."

"You like James Bond movies but you've never settled in with a classic Hitchcock?"

"Yes, I was always too afraid to watch them. At least when I was younger. I wanted to eventually get around to watching _The Birds_ and _Strangers on a Train,_ which I hear are good as well, but this one is a mystery to me."

"It's the best one! Nevermind, watch." He tapped the John's shoulder, directing him to take his eyes off him.

John nuzzled his head in under Sherlock's chin. "Just tell me what it's about."

"Shut up, it's starting."

 _Remind me again why I like this bastard?_ John thought, but John could feel Sherlock's heart beat on his cheek and it quickened when the first scene appeared, two men chasing each other over rooftops. He was excited and enthralled in the film. _Oh, that's why._

John kissed his chest and turned toward the screen, settling in for the remainder of the movie. 

Sherlock was utterly captivated the whole time. John found himself becoming more entranced by the characters and the curious plot, but not so much as Sherlock, who was mouthing along to some of the lines. John tried to kiss him in the middle of it, but Sherlock pushed him away, eyes stuck on the screen. 

The movie wrapped up with a twist, John completely blown away by the end of it. They sat in silence for a few moments, stunned by the film. Sherlock was the first to speak

"Isn't it fantastic?"

"Wow. That was… Wow. But the woman!"

"I know!"

"And the bell tower…"

"Exactly."

"The irony hurts."

"That's why it's great."

John sat up and pulled his arms from Sherlock's waist, only to move them to his thighs. "Wait. As much as I can see the appeal of this movie, I don't know why _you'd_ like it. Don't you think he should have recognized her, even after she dyed her hair?"

"He did."

"I know, but _really_ recognize her."

"He _did._ " Sherlock reached over John and found the clicker, switching the T.V. off and leaving them in the low lighting. They were huddled together and warm under the blankets, the night outside the building causing their own little bubble to be infinitely warmer.

John shook his head. "I'm not questioning the validity of the movie, I mean, he was obviously in shock and grieving and that's why he sought her out, because she looked like _her_ , but I just would think that you'd make some ridiculous deduction about how he should have known that she was a hired actress."

The closet Hitchcock fanatic looked straight into John's eyes and popped a curious brow. "Are you suggesting this movie is too 'fantasy' for a man of my logic?"

"Pffft, logic. I just took you roughly in the kitchen after a case, you think there's logic in that?"

Sherlock dropped his eyes as he often did, but this time there was no fleeting sadness there. He just crinkled his mouth in a smile and brought his gaze back up to John's face. "Not particularly. But with this, and all of his other movies, there's this fantastic _quality_ about them, and it leaves you gutted when you're done. In all honesty, the first time Mycroft showed me this one, my mind was spouting off so many deductions that I had a headache the entire time - but I was happily mistaken. Movies like this are the only time I've been happy to have been wrong. The murder, the mystery - it's no secret why that appeals to me… but the other touches are what get to me: the spin, the imagination, the happenstance of them falling for each other despite the original plan… It's all curious."

John hummed as he thought. "I suppose. But I feel that you would have just thought 'How utterly sentimental. This mess could have been solved quickly if they hadn't fallen in love. Shame.' ...or something."

"Is that your impression of me?"

"No, I can do a better one."

Sherlock kissed him. "I guess this movie is just my exception. I like it too much to tear it apart." He licked his lips. "Alright, now show me this impression."

John rolled his neck and straightened his back. "Okay. 'You must be an idiot, Anderson, the cat would never _really_ want to jump from the roof. What purpose would that serve? Once again, you'e utterly _blind._ The animal _obviously_ took a hang glider down the laundry line and landed in the alleyway. Stupid, simple ideas. Common thoughts. Try harder. Although I doubt it'd matter, you'll never help to win the game.' …There."

Tilting his head back against the patterned wall, Sherlock laughed. It was an unnatural sound, coming from him, but it was beautiful just the same. "I do _not_ emphasize that much. And what sort of case is this? Hang gliding cats?"

"Tell me it wasn't spot on."

He tucked his hand around John's waist and pulled him in. "The unhealthy hatred for Anderson was accurate, but I'd never mention the game to him."

John liked being in the near dark with Sherlock after having just shagged him senseless and indulging in his favorite movie. "No, you wouldn't. That's only when you want to make a statement." John found himself lost in the vast darkness of Sherlock's eyes for a moment, wondering how such elementary anatomy was so goddamn startling. "I like this."

"I like this, too."

"I mean, I like this you. This looser, happier you. The you that laughs more."

Sherlock brought them both lower on the couch and rustled to cover them with the blanket. "It's because I have you now." 

John kissed him after that, the whizzing events of that earlier that evening and the mysterious film seeming utterly pointless when compared to the current moment, beside Sherlock, just laying on him in comfortable silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kitchen sex and Hitchcock... Yeah, I definitely put too much of myself in this goddamn fic.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock looked at him with such a fondness in his eyes that John knew he'd found the right man to love him in this way.

Walking towards Sherlock's bedroom after a light afternoon snack, the men laced fingers and toppled onto the bed. The sun had come out for once, and it streamed through the open window and illuminated the room in golden light. Sherlock rolled around on the bed before John had to steady him with a hand and laugh at him.

"John," he said, looking up at him from his position on his back.

"Hm?"

"Why haven't you moved your clothes in here yet? You always have to go back and change in your room. Just move in here."

The doctor swallowed his embarrassment away, since he'd never been asked anything with such secure connotations. "I don't mind going back. It's in the same flat, anyway."

Sherlock didn't say anything after that. He just rolled himself into John and nestled his bum back into John's lap. They spoke of mindless things and cases for a few minutes before the fickle detective abruptly changed the subject.

"Why don't you bottom?" he said.

Hesitating a moment before responding, John spoke truthfully, "I do… Sometimes."

"Do you dislike it?"

"No, I actually don't dislike it. I enjoy it, but it's something that takes a lot of trust for me to do. I've only ever done it once, too." _That was under different circumstances, though._

"During the war?"

"During the war." 

A car passed outside and the men could hear it run over a sewer lid.

"What was that like?" Sherlock asked.

"It was… strange. I was pretty shaken up by the time I'd befriended one of my majors. We decided to have a beer one night and things just happened. He was very kind about it, even though I was jittery and sore the morning after. But it wasn't awkward or anything between us after that. We did it thrice more, but it seemed to be a slowly dying attraction as things got uglier outside of my small cabin. I didn't know if it would continue, and I tried to put it out of my mind so as not to dwell, but then…"

"You were shot. Have you spoken to him since?"

John breathed onto the back of Sherlock's neck. "Not really. He sent me a message when I was in the infirmary wishing me luck and such. I wasn't upset about that in particular, but when I returned to London… I just felt sort of empty." It was silent once again, but the tension was no longer present and now a calm peace remained. "That wasn't the first time I'd fooled around with a man, but definitely the first time I'd been shagged by one. I don't know why I felt so comfortable around him, I just was. I trusted him."

Sherlock didn't seem to know how to respond to any of that. "You told me a lot more than I expected you would."

"Well yeah, Sherlock. I trust you."

"Enough to let me top you?" He sounded sincere about it, even though there was a hint of excitement and hope in his voice. John looked at the loose curl on the back of Sherlock's neck as he stroked his hand down his arm.

He pulled Sherlock into him and lightly pecked his cheek. "Of course."

Turning his head and meeting his mouth tenderly, Sherlock kissed him. He spoke to John, their lips brushing together. "Do you want to?"

John sat up and pulled Sherlock with him. _Yes, I do._ "I thought you'd never ask."

He pressed his lips to Sherlock's mouth and covered every inch of Sherlock's skin with his hands. He stroked Sherlock's back down to his rear and felt the same happen to him. He tensed slightly, unaccustomed to being touched there. _Wow, I'm actually rather nervous._ Sherlock pulled up and gave him concerned eyes, but John just kissed his frown away and smiled.

It was a difficult mindset to put himself into, but it wasn't that he was at a disadvantage because he was "catching". He just had to be willing to receive a different sort of pleasure, and he knew that Sherlock would be fantastic at giving it.

Sherlock hummed against his lips. "John, I think I have to be more in control this time." John had been pushing against Sherlock, leading as he usually did. 

He pulled back and slowed his touches. "Right. Sorry." 

The detective moved the doctor onto his back below him. John looked up at him, his arms stretching down and leading to wide hands that rested beside John's head, his knee rubbing up into his crotch, his slightly askew smile that told John he loved the thought of taking him. 

John reached up to the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him down and into his mouth. Their kiss deepened as Sherlock moved his palms underneath John and around to his back, where he slid them down and under John's trousers and pants. John canted his crotch downward onto Sherlock's thigh at the feeling of Sherlock's warm hands touching his bare rear. He massaged the muscle but didn't let his fingers go any nearer to John's opening. Not yet.

Sherlock removed his right hand and brought it to the front, where he fiddled with the clasp of John's trousers. John did the same to Sherlock, and both men raised themselves as the other pushed them lower and exposed each other. John looked fondly at Sherlock's cock - it was so familiar now. He knew every sensitive spot and every position to make Sherlock squirm. He was pleased at the fact that he was the only one to ever do so.

The man with bright eyes and dark hair leapt from the bed and shed his trousers and unbuttoned his shirt. He pulled off his socks and stretched his back, now eager to be naked with John. The doctor followed his lead an raised his hips as he slid his bottoms off. He sat up and pulled his shirt over his head with a satisfying brush of sunshine dousing his skin. 

Climbing back onto the bed and immediately touching all of John, Sherlock looked at him with such a fondness in his eyes that John knew he'd found the right man to love him in this way. John met Sherlock's mouth and pulled him on top of him, shifting them together and letting Sherlock grind into him. Sherlock grumbled into his ear.

* * *

"I'm so excited, John… Just tell me what to do." Sherlock said. He could tell that John was trying desperately hard not to guide them as he gyrated their cocks together, but the man just hummed his content and spoke back with a heady breath.

"It's just like when I do it to you. Remember that proper preparation is important…" But his voice trailed off as Sherlock began to suck on his neck and jaw, his hands slipping back to John's rear.

 _I'll try to be as good to you as you are to me, John._ Sherlock whispered his agreement into John's neck. He knew that John had prepared him justly by fingering him, but now that they had bought proper lubrication, he knew that saliva wouldn't be their sole reliant. He scrambled off John and reached for the bedside drawer. He retrieved the bottle that they'd bought nearly a week ago, which was emptying quickly with each new endeavor.

Sherlock settled himself above John and showed him the bottle. He nodded. Sherlock squeezed some onto his fingers and warmed it with his thumb. He let the bottle fall to the left of John's calf, certain that he'd need it again. He locked eyes with John before dropping his gaze lower. He swept up the view of John's solid body and flushing erection, but his goal was just lower than that, and he stroked his dry hand over John's thigh as a sign for him to raise and spread them. He did so. 

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock found himself timid as well. He hoped he could provide for John, to make him feel that deep, coiling pleasure that he always did. He wanted to take John in the same way, and he was happy that John had wanted to as well,but now that he was here, in front of him, Sherlock tried to swallow his eagerness. 

He failed, of course, once he slipped one long, slender finger into John's arse and immediately felt him contract and quiver around him. Sherlock brought his attention to John's face, which had closed eyes and a very focused expression. "Is it alright?" Sherlock asked, his voice cracking with arousal.

"Yes, it's nice. You can move now." Sherlock obeyed. He knew that the act mustn't have hurt John, for he'd been taken before and Sherlock fingers were lithe and thin, but he deduced that John wasn't used to the feeling. It had been last tested during the hardest time of his life. With that thought, Sherlock swallowed his anxiety and told himself he had to make it better than that. 

He moved his finger in and out slowly like John had done to him, and soon enough, John was breathing harder and sinking his eager hips onto his finger. Sherlock squeezed more lubrication directly onto his plunging finger and added the second, John responding justly.

After that, it fell into place easily. John wasn't as silent as he was when he topped, Sherlock found, and he used his muttering curses and gasps to gauge his speed and angle. He found that John liked it best when he twisted his fingers, so with dramatic flair, he added a third finger with a clockwise screw.

John bucked against his hand at that and made a plaintive sound. Sherlock didn't know if he'd hit his prostate yet, he hadn't been trying, but he was growing insatiably hungry to take John and he knew that he could. He asked again. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, please. Please, Sherlock. Fuck me." John dug his hips further down into Sherlock's hand, seemingly reacting to the sound of his own pleading voice.

 _When John's vocal, he definitely doesn't hold back. He sounds like a porn star. …I like it._ Sherlock withdrew his fingers and wiped them on the bedspread before clasping his large hands on both sides of John's waist and pulling him up. John obeyed and let himself be spun around and set on his knees, facing away from Sherlock. Guiding him toward the headboard of the bed, Sherlock reached around John and laced his fingers in one of his hands, the other clutching to the wood for support.

Sherlock reveled in the chiseled physique of John's abs under his palm and felt them contract as he shifted forward and let himself brush John's rear. Sherlock couldn't help but ask again as he reached behind him and found the lube once more, "You're alright?"

He loved it when John constantly asked him if he was alright during sex, so he tried to mimic that, but John was antsy and horny and snappy. "I said yes." He jutted his bum backwards and ground himself on Sherlock, who did the same. He slipped his cock in the cleft of John's rear and was suddenly very grateful that John had helped train him to contain himself, since he felt a surge of pleasure with the contact.

"Fine, you eager little prat." Sherlock smiled to himself and he knew John was too, even if he could only see the back of his head. He pulled his hips back and added a final amount of lube to both him and John before casting it aside. He took the tip in his hand and rubbed it at John's opening a few times - John definitely liked that.

Sherlock felt the control and power catch up to him now, and he pushed the tip into John's slippery, reddened opening. John jerked forward and pulled Sherlock with him, but he grumbled a low hum of anticipation and he countered the jerk with pushing himself backward and sinking himself down to Sherlock's base.

He gave a strangled sound and froze.

"Does it hurt?" Sherlock asked, his hand that wasn't clasping John's now back to squeezing John around the waist. 

"No, not really. It just… Wow." John bowed his head. "Please, Sherlock."

Sherlock pulled out a few inches, the lubrication sliding around him with comfortable ease. He felt John's insides rippling and twitching, hot and pulsating around him, and he wanted to feel it slowly before pounding into him as John often did to him.

He sheathed himself once again, the muscles in John's back rolling as he brought his head back up and squeezed Sherlock's hand. 

They shifted their slipping knees but remained sitting upright, John clutching the headboard of the bed with his right hand while the other gripped Sherlock's tightly. Sherlock resumed his push and pull, the tightness making his head go fuzzy and his stomach drop in pleasure.

Of course, it didn't take long for Sherlock to increase his thrusts and find a rhythm, John pushing back into him when he pushed in, meeting them together fiercely and drawing them apart sharply when Sherlock pulled back. It was an intense pleasure and Sherlock noted that it was the first time he'd ever been inside anyone. He loved the thought that it was John, and he drove himself harder into him when he heard John groan his name.

* * *

It was definitely a different pleasure than topping, John noticed. He felt full and stretched and his stomach sparked when Sherlock went as far as he could go, thrusting deep inside him. He found that he was gripping the headboard of the bed and Sherlock's hand tightly and furrowing his brows to an almost painful extent, but that the pleasure from his arse was taking over the majority of his senses.

He heard himself grumble, gasp, moan, and call Sherlock's name as his arm tightened around his middle. He felt Sherlock push deeper and scoop his hips so he ground into John when he was fully sunk, and John's knees buckled as he went weak.

Sherlock seemed to finally grasp the concept that he was shagging someone who'd last been taken in this way when he was army, and he began calling John "Captain." John would have smirked proudly if he'd not been almost drooling, and he just called back to Sherlock with a helpless breath of his name.

Reality slipped farther away as John came closer to his release, Sherlock taking him fast and rough and breathing hot breaths into his neck with every push. John turned his face toward the sounds of his name and met Sherlock's eager mouth. They kissed deeply, taking no time for petty, soft kisses. Sherlock ran his tongue over John's and dug his nails into his side as he began to quiver and tremble.

Right before John let himself go, he reveled in the change of atmosphere he found. He was being taken by Sherlock, mercilessly, and he loved it. John didn't feel weak, or compliant, or anything that people associated with bottoming… He felt safe and loved and cherished, as if each heady thrust that he received was Sherlock giving him something wonderful. 

That's exactly what it was, and John came with a yelp of Sherlock's name. His legs gave out and he almost lost his balance as his orgasm hit, but Sherlock held him up firmly and dug into him further, releasing inside of John with a whimper.

As always, they were paralyzed for a moment as the last of their pleasures drained them, and Sherlock slowly slipped himself out and pulled John down beside him as he rolled them away from the mess and fell into the bed. John was weak and satisfied and trying to calm his heart rate down when he felt a trace of a finger along his neck and shoulder.

"John…" he heard from behind him. He was wet and sticky and spent, and it was completely unlike the fleeting desire that had passed during his time in Afghanistan. He used the last of his energy to push himself closer to Sherlock and take his arms to wrap around himself.

His throat was dry and he swallowed sharply and tried to regain his voice. "Sherlock."

The man behind him nestled his face into the crook of his neck and kissed him on the cheek. He leaned in close to his ear and spoke just quiet enough for John to hear, "That was bloody fantastic."

John turned his face and kissed him tender lips. It seemed Sherlock's rambunctious kissing had split a part of his lip and it stung.

"Oh, sorry about that." He said when he tasted blood and noticed the small cut.

Nestling his head back down into his pillow, John licked his lips. "I like it. It's proof that you were into it."

Sherlock let his head fall back to his own side of the bed. He kissed John's back instead. "Of course I did," he kissed again, "It was incredible."

"Do you know how I feel now?"

"Yes, I do. I'm grateful that you were so patient with me though. It was hard not to lose control."

"Maybe next time you can. I do admit that I think we work better I'm topping, though."

Sherlock squeezed John to his body closer, "Well, we'll see."

"Yes." John felt the exhaustion of the day kick in, the afternoon sun and the detective draped around him providing a comfortable warmth. "We'll see."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Top!lock because I'm a sellout.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His life was criminal and sharp, but John was righteous and soft.

The time they'd spent together wasn't necessarily counted in days or dates, seeing as both men cherished and reveled in every second, never second-guessing its validity or the time they had left. Scotland Yard had finally calmed down to the idea of them, as did Mrs. Hudson, but her excited quips and chirps always appeared when she visited. Mycroft and Greg had stopped teasing John and Sherlock, and Donovan and Anderson seemed to care less and wanted the focus to be back on cases. 

Now that sex was constant and comfortable, the men breached new territory by kissing in public more and writing each other notes on the kitchen table when the other left the flat. Things had been working for many days, and John was always received well when he came home from the clinic, an eager detective leaping onto him. Consequently, John and Sherlock always took the high they'd gotten from cases to add to their sex life, inevitably becoming kinkier with each new spot in the flat. …Even the roof, at one point.

The doctor and his detective were curled up now, tangled in blankets, waking up with kisses and lazy strokes down the other's skin. It'd been about three weeks since Mrs. Hudson had first wished them a happy anniversary, but each day felt extremely long and laden with excitement, leaving each morning to be warm and content.

"Sherlock…" John whispered into the hand that was clasping his. 

"Hm?"

"Wasn't it Valentine's day a week ago?"

"Was it?"

"Yeah. When we went to the store there were all these advertisements. It didn't really hit me until just now, I suppose."

Sherlock pulled John's leg in with his calf. "A couple's holiday… Sentiment."

John turned his head and kissed Sherlock's shoulder. "Oh, don't start with that, I know if you had known earlier we would have done something special."

"A faux holiday."

"A holiday to celebrate."

The morning was grey but it was still bright and illuminating the white sheets and the light strands of John's hair. Sherlock buried his nose in them and kissed his head before pulling away. "I don't need a holiday to celebrate us. Especially one with mediocre chocolate."

John seemed irritated that they'd missed it. He didn't say anything, though, so how was Sherlock to know? "Maybe next year." John grumbled.

He was perfectly happy, just lying beside John, so the detective reflected in on himself and his life. He thought of how far they'd come: from tense flatmates who happened to save each other's lives, to schoolboys with crushes, to something else, to finally what they were now. He knew that it was real, that John's skin was real, that his lips were real, that the orgasms were real, that his constant responses were real… And he felt fantastic, like a fantasy storybook where the princes had to battle their own demons before they could seal their fate with true love's kiss.

 _Ridiculous…_ Sherlock thought. _Ridiculous and wonderful._

Shifting and pushing himself closer, John proved his existence once again and snapped Sherlock from his reflection. Sherlock realized that he was here, with this man, and it was enough. He was enough. Their relationship came easy to them and everyone's approval only made it easier. John was blond and sleepy and warm and solid and wrapped in Sherlock's arms, and he thought without consequence how he didn't want anything else for the rest of his days.

His life was criminal and sharp, but John was righteous and soft. It was an extreme contrast and Sherlock found that now was a perfect time to finally say it. 

"John Watson, I am in love with you."

* * *

His heart flipped at the sudden confession, but he took no time responding truthfully. "And I am in love with you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock tightened his arms and pressed his nose to the back of John's neck. He was real. He was real and intelligent and spindly and curly and pale and absurd and he was behind him, loving him, nothing that neither of them thought possible. Sherlock was his to have and show off and parade around and sleep with and wake up to. Sherlock shared himself with John, selflessly, devoting himself to him, as John did to him. Sherlock was his savior, in so many ways, and John would never stop thanking him for that.

John twisted his body now, rolling into Sherlock and pressing his lips to his. He scooted his head back a few inches and tucked his leg between Sherlock's, wrapping his arms under him.

Letting himself enjoy the sight of his love's sleepy lips and secret freckles, he documented every line and curve in Sherlock's face, causing him to be as vast and complex as the universe but as familiar as John's own hand.

John Watson was lost in the brilliant color of Sherlock's eyes, and he would never be used to them, no matter how long he had to gaze into them.

It was a wonderful feeling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xx THE END xX
> 
> I can barely believe I actually completed it. Thank you to those who supported it, those who read it, and to Johnlock - a sinfully sweet addiction.
> 
> Despite my pretentious author's notes, I'm actually just a little dingus, so if you liked this story, please leave a comment or message me at my tumblr (crimson-winter.tumblr.com)!
> 
> I'm a lonely teenage girl with one year left of high school and I would love to hear from you! <3
> 
> Xx crimsonwinter xX


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